


Made and Remade the Necklace of Songs

by pibroch (littleblackdog)



Series: Sing When the Dawn is Dark [1]
Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Awkwardness, Blow Jobs, Fluff and Angst, Hand Jobs, Humor, Kink Meme, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Romance, Soulmates, only a little angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-24 05:50:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackdog/pseuds/pibroch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Hobbit kink meme.</p><p>In a Middle Earth where dwarves dream of Heartsongs and hobbits carry the name of their fated partner as private Mark, Bilbo Baggins had never been able to properly translate the strange rows of runes inscribed on his wrist.</p><p>And likewise, Thorin Oakenshield had never imagined he would hear the voice of his Heartsong from a fussy little gentlehobbit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have absolutely no idea why [this prompt](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/1990.html?thread=1967814) caught hold of me like it did, but I think I'm coming to terms with the reality that my brain is going to be mercilessly pummeled by Hobbit fandom for a while yet. I should just stop questioning it, and get on with my day.

 

* * *

 

“Wait, you _sing_?” Squished between Fili and Kili on a mossy, fallen log, with their small campfire warming his toes and a bowl of rather nice stew cradled in his hands, Bilbo searched the faces of his companions. They all appeared perfectly sincere, and Ori couldn’t lie to save his life (the poor lad would go all pink over the bridge of his nose, and gnaw his lips).

“Aye.” Swirling his spoon around his own stew, Bofur smiled crookedly, shadows dancing under the shade of his hat. “And listen. The listening’s the vital bit, right brother?”

Expression going a bit misty as he nodded, Bombur kept on crumbling hardtack into his bowl, thickening his supper. His answer sounded more watery than the stew, and Bilbo nearly glanced away, feeling unaccountably prying. “The most beautiful sound in the whole wide world, it is.”

“Any dwarf’ll know the voice of his Heartsong,” Nori added, prodding at the fire with a long stick, seemingly engrossed in the licking flames. “Down in his bones and blood.”

“We hear it in our dreams,” Ori said softly, before Bilbo could ask, and slid an arm around his other brother’s back, leaning his head on Dori’s shoulder. Dori didn’t flinch or shrug his brother off, staring into the fire as well, and Bilbo felt another question catch in his throat. Goodness gracious, did dwarves—

“Dori’s song went quiet,” Fili murmured, leaning close to Bilbo’s ear. “When Erebor fell. Just a wee boy, he was.”

“Balin and Oin's too,” Kili added from his other side, almost more breath than whisper. “Far as I know, and Dwalin lost his after Azanulbizar. Too much death.”

Bilbo’s grip on his bowl tightened, and he fought the urge to toss it aside and touch his wrist through its careful wrapping, enough to feel the slightly raised edges of his Mark. He could not begin to fathom the notion of it fading— the Mark of a widower was just as crisp and clear as the Mark of a lovestruck youngling. Silence in dreams would have been like waking to bare, empty skin, and the very thought made Bilbo feel hollowed out and cold as winter wind.

“What do hobbits have, then,” Kili said suddenly, too loud in the silence that had fallen, but it managed to break the delicate shell of tension well enough. Dori inhaled deeply, then smiled at his little brother, ruffling Ori’s smooth hair.

Chewing on a tougher morsel of stew, Fili hummed inquiringly. “Aye, what, if not a song? Or are you not born for partners, like men and elves?”

Immediately levelled with the rapt attention of eight dwarves (while Dwalin, Balin, Oin, Gloin, and Thorin huddled apart from the rest, muttering over maps and plans), Bilbo squirmed a bit, all too aware of the chance he’d just been handed. He could unwrap the dark green cotton from ‘round his wrist, and seek the answer he had ached to learn since he was a tween— the dwarves wouldn’t know how private a Mark was meant to be kept, especially for an unmarried hobbit. They wouldn’t know, nor would they likely _care_ , that flashing the strange red runes etched across his skin would be the equivalent of dropping his trousers over supper, or worse, baring his very soul. They certainly weren’t hobbits: to them, his Mark would be as scandalous to wave about in public as Dwalin’s tattoos.

But despite the Tookishness that had brought him scampering out his door in the first place— the same boldness that had seen him sneaking into a troll encampment to free their poor ponies, and willingly leave behind the soft beds of Rivendell even after he’d struggled on their journey thus far— despite all that, he was still a Baggins of Bag End. He was still a proper gentlehobbit, no matter what some of the stodgier old gaffers and grandmothers muttered about him back home.

And so Bilbo hesitated, fidgeting with his bowl. In the end, he did not allow his fingers to stray to his binding for even an instant.

“Hobbits have a Mark,” he said, clearing his throat when the explanation tried to stick. “We’re born with it, somewhere on our skin.” Always on the soft inside of the left wrist, but Bilbo was not about to divulge that. His companions might guess, might ask about the cloth wrapped snugly under his cuff, but it seemed like foolishness to volunteer himself to be woken by either Fili or Kili trying to peek under his binding.

“Oh, what sort of mark?” Ori’s eyes were wide and liquid dark in the firelight; of course, he had been fascinated with any bit of Hobbitish lore Bilbo had shared so far. But the others appeared to be listening closely, as well.

“The name of our intended,” Bilbo replied, and there was a chorus of sharp inhales around the fire.

“A _name_ —” Bofur whistled, low and perhaps a touch awed. “Well, that’d be right handy.”

Handy, certainly, if it was written in a legible script, but Bilbo hadn’t been so fortunate. In a quirk of fate so very ill thought of and rare that it was only whispered about among his people, Bilbo Baggins had been born with a Mark not written in Hobbitish at all. He had not been certain the runes were even dwarven at all, until Gandalf had first spread that aged map across his table. He had sought their meaning as a younger hobbit, of course; the consensus between what books he could find and a few talkative travelers had been _some kind of Dwarfish script_ , but it had always been challenging to learn anything tangible. It was not standard Khuzdul, he knew that much.

The curious, angular symbols cut across his wrist in two neat rows, in the same deep, ruby red of blood freshly welling from a cut. The colour, at least, was ordinary— there were rumours of a Took maiden decades before who’d been born with a curling elvish Mark in silvery, shimmering blue, as pale as spring moonlight, but the vast majority of hobbit Marks were some shade of red, from pinkish to russet brown.

“Some hobbits aren’t born with Marks at all,” he continued, perhaps a bit too quickly. “Though it’s not common, there’s no shame in it either. Some of us are simply made to be bachelors.”

As he had half-hoped, and half-feared might happen, the dwarves glanced curiously from one to another, but none spoke up. He could bear the pity of their assumption, if it meant keeping his privacy— curiosity, even the desperate, clawing sort that had settled in his chest, was not a match for the trepidation that stilled his tongue.

Still, if they had pressed the issue, he would have shown them, flushed with nerves but eager all the same.

It was foolishness— what would come of it besides heartbreak and awkwardness, if he showed these dwarves his Mark? If his time amongst them had taught him anything, Bilbo was confident in their stubbornness and love of home. If they gave him a name, of some silversmith or miner from the Blue Mountains or the Iron Hills, what then?

It was easier, in the end, to live out his days as though he had no Mark at all, than to know for certain that the other half of his heart was out in the world, so far from his cosy smial and the rolling hills of the Shire. Bilbo could not, in good conscience, expect a settled dwarf to leave home and hearth for some podgy hobbit he or she had never clapped eyes upon.

But now that he knew dwarves had fated partners as well, Bilbo was struck with doubt. Was there a dwarf somewhere, dreaming of _his_ voice in the wee hours? Did they ache to know him as he did them? Did they hum their Heartsong before sleep took them, quiet and yearning, just as he traced crimson lines with his fingertip when no one could see?

Feeling heat and grit spring up in his eyes that could not be explained away by the smoke of the fire, Bilbo swallowed thickly and called up his broadest grin instead, shaking off the dark shroud of useless grief. This conversation had begun as a talk of Shire drinking songs, and how bawdy they could get compared to Dwarven tunes— that seemed a much more pleasant topic to explore.

“Here, friends, the Gamgees have an endless supply of good songs for a mug of ale—”


	2. Chapter 2

“Could we not try—” Thorin stopped cold, his hand going slack against Balin’s map of the Misty Mountains. Their route, their journey, even Erebor itself was purged from his mind for one blinding bright instant, as the world narrowed to one voice, clear and sharp as crystal, ringing out above the sudden hammering of his heart. 

“Thorin?” Dwalin’s grip was hard on his shoulder, shaking him free of whatever spell had him so tightly snared. He could still hear the voice, however; it warmed him, suffusing his muscles with the comfort of a banked hearth, and filling his nose with a blend of disparate but lovely smells— deep homey earth, fresh baked bread, and wildflowers.

“I'm fine,” he rasped, and by the honour of all his ancestors, he had never spoken truer words. He was _fine_ — better than he had ever been. That voice, his _Heartsong_...

Blinking, drawing back in upon himself and shoring up his composure, Thorin did not dare turn his attention to the rest of their company. There, amid the hot food, laughter, and muted singing, _there_ , amongst his sworn companions, sat the voice of his Heartsong. He knew it in his bones, and deeper still.

He needed to get control of himself, immediately. Thorin Oakenshield would _not_ trip over his own feet and swoon like a maid in the presence of his kin and company. 

Pressing one finger against map, Thorin managed to untangle at least a few of his more relevant thoughts. They did, in fact, have perilous mountains to climb in the very near future. “We will take the pass, as you suggest, Balin.”

He did not acknowledge the concerned expressions flitting across his fellows' faces, except to harden his own eyes to flinty resolve, all but daring one of them to speak.

“Aye,” Balin said after a moment's pause, peering up at Thorin with a terribly knowing glint in his eyes, and slid the map carefully across the stone they had chosen as a table. “If the weather holds, we should make it to the lee of this peak, here, before tomorrow's nightfall. A good enough place to wait for Gandalf, and sheltered from the northerly winds." 

“Good enough.” And it was, truly; Balin knew the Wild and the Misty Mountains better than any of them. They had a plan, a route for the morning— they were prepared. Perhaps he could allow a single glance...

One single glance was not enough. Thorin reeled, scrubbing a hand over his face and staring at the huddled forms thrown into relief by the flickering fire. He strained to hear, to be utterly certain, but of course he knew the truth. With this, he was incapable of deceiving himself, unable to deny the reality before him. It could not be, and yet it _was_.

Mahal preserve him— the _halfling_?

 

* * *

 

First watch was awful, ignoring the call of sleep after a long day’s hike to sit by while all the others tumbled into their bedrolls, but middle watch was even worse. Fili smacked at whatever was prodding his ribs and dragging him unwillingly from a particularly nice dream; that earned him a harder kick, enough to knock his wind out for a moment and wake him properly, sputtering.

“Move your arses,” Dwalin rumbled, looming overhead, with features cast especially grim in the dim red light of the banked coals. “Watch change.”

“Aye, yeah, I’m up,” Fili managed, his own voice rough as gravel from the dryness of sleep, and elbowed his brother sharply in the spine. “Kee, wake up. Time for watch shift.”

“M’wake,” Kili mumbled, curling like a weevil into his blankets, then sat up flailing when Dwalin’s boot connected hard with his calves. “Ah! I— _shit_ —what—”

“Button it, you badgers.” Rolling his shoulders, thick arms looking more like a rockslide than flesh and furs in the eerie darkness, Dwalin stifled a jaw-cracking yawn. “Shut your traps and open your eyes, or wargs’ll be the least of your worries. Now, _move_.”

It was a bit of a scramble, but the brothers did as they were bid in short order, leaving cozy bedrolls and the heat of the fire to go patrol the edge of camp. It was slow and thorough (after the pony incident, proving themselves again was a primary concern), but the forest was quiet; soon enough, they settled together on a large, flat rock to keep lookout.

And that was where their uncle found them, shortly thereafter. 

Instead of slipping off into the trees to make water, Thorin strode right up to their perch, and both brothers sat straighter, regarding the unusual approach with an expectant sort of wariness.

“Kili, keep watch,” Thorin said, voice pitched low and stern. “Fili, come with me for a moment. We must have words.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Fili blurted before he could think better of it, but his composure was suffering from the lateness of the hour and the slightly agitated air that hung about their uncle like a grim cloak. Beside him, Kili reached out and squeezed his forearm, silent support and a warning all in one.

Thorin huffed a deep sigh, shaking his head. “And that doesn’t sound at all suspicious. I hadn’t planned a reprimand, lads— best not make me wonder if you might deserve one. Fili, come.”

“Yes, Uncle.” Hopping off the stone, Fili shot a quick glance at Kili, but his brother’s expression was just as confused as Fili felt. No answers there, so he followed Thorin into the darkness, farther away from the fire than even their watch post.

In the deep, murky shadows of the scrubby forest around them, Thorin’s eyes looked like black pools under the shroud of his hair. Fili did not fidget under the scrutiny; he honestly hadn’t done anything worth a chewing out recently, and neither had Kili to the best of his knowledge.

“I am going to ask you questions,” Thorin began, in very nearly a whisper. “And the _why_ of it is none of your concern. Just answer, and afterwards, keep this conversation private. Can you do that, Nephew?”

It was a question, rather than an order, and Fili gave it the serious consideration due. After a moment, he nodded, just barely noticeable in the dark. “Aye, of course. Anything I can answer.”

“Good.” A broad hand clapping his shoulder was unexpected, but not at all unwelcome. “You and your brother were sitting with the hobbit at supper. Did you notice anything strange? What did he speak about, before the carousing?”

“We were speaking of songs.” Of all the questions Thorin might have asked, Fili had not expected this. He bristled, ever so slightly, at the implication that his uncle still harboured ill-feelings and even mistrust for Bilbo— their little burglar was actually a fine fellow, once the stick started coming loose from his arse. “Hobbit and Dwarven drinking songs, and other singing too.”

Thorin was very quiet, still as a stature, and Fili shifted in his boots. Something was odd.

Eventually, Thorin spoke, though each word sounded stilted and strange. “Other singing? Like dirges, or Heartsongs?”

The _why_ was not his concern, as he’d been told outright, but that didn’t mean Fili wasn’t burning with curiosity. “Aye, but Master Baggins hadn’t heard of Heartsongs. Hobbits have some little Mark instead— a name printed on their skin, rather than a voice. Funny little folk.”

“A Mark?” If anyone besides his kin had grabbed him by the arms so suddenly, all but shaking him like a doll, Fili would have been hard-pressed not to lash out and drop them hard. With Thorin, he merely tensed, gripping his uncle’s elbows and planting his feet. “A name? Where?”

“I’ve no idea— Bilbo didn’t tell us.” Dropped just as quickly as he’d been grabbed, Fili watched Thorin pace away a step or two, then pace back; there was frustration in the jerky swing of his arms. Their uncle was usually quite elegant and economical in his movements, but something had him well off-kilter. “Not even certain he has one, to be honest. Apparently, some hobbits are born without. Born bachelors, he said.”

“Wonderful,” Thorin muttered, though it sounded anything but. “Fine. Back to your watch, then.”

And before Fili could say another word, Thorin was stalking towards camp without a single backwards glance.

Returning to their watch post, Fili scratched absently at his beard, running through the bizarre conversation again in his mind. Kili was all but bouncing expectantly, tapping his boots against the stone— Fili considered a few possible interpretations of _keeping private_ , before joining his brother on their seat.

“He asked about Bilbo,” Fili said, before Kili could even prompt him. “What we talked about at supper, and all that... I’ve no idea why. It was very odd.”

“Come on, then.” Kili butted their shoulders together, crowding close and secretive. “Lucky enough, I’m the clever one. Tell.”


	3. Chapter 3

Between Bombur and Gloin, Thorin wasn’t entirely certain which dwarf he trusted more with this sort of private matter, and yet his options were few. Every dwarf in the company had heard a Heartsong in their dreams, but as far as Thorin knew, only those two had ever been blessed with that most treasured sound in the waking world, and not also touched by grief he would not question.

In the end, it was Bombur he approached— Gloin was a dear and trusted friend, but far too eager to wax on about his quite comely wife and fine young son. Such an old romantic was not the sort guaranteed to keep his gums from flapping about Thorin’s... predicament. Bombur might not be kin, but he had proven himself loyal, with a stout heart and a strong arm wielding his battle spoon (though a weakness for ample foods, it must be said).

Getting Bombur away from the others without suspicion was difficult, as the well-built dwarf was rarely keen on wandering far during their travels, but Thorin was determined. It was still morning when the rain began, a light grey drizzle slicking the stones under their feet, and an assessment of the company was not entirely unwarranted as they began their trek into the rougher mountain terrain.

Allowing the line of trudging dwarves to pass him, Thorin nodded to each, letting his eyes rove in vague inspection. Bombur, luckily enough, was bringing up the rear; it was a simply thing to slip back into line beside him, though Thorin was cautious to watch his step on the path. This close to the base of the mountain it was wide enough for a dozen ponies to walk side-by-side, to say nothing of two dwarves (even considering Bombur’s size), but it would grow narrower as they climbed.

“Bombur,” Thorin began, leaning close and speaking low. “May we speak?”

“Of course, oh, of course—” Bombur dipped his head, hands worrying the edges of his dampened clothing, but he still met Thorin’s gaze politely. “How can I be of service?”

“I have a question.” Looking up the line, where his conversation was already garnering one or two curious glances, Thorin would not allow himself to retreat. There, chatting amiably between Bofur and Balin, a certain mop of brown, unbraided curls drew his eye as a flame did an ill-fated moth. “But it is rather personal. I’ll not be the least offended if you choose not to answer.”

Dragging his attention back to Bombur, Thorin took a deep, steadying breath. “Will you tell me, how does it truly feel to... to hear the voice of a Heartsong?”

 

* * *

 

“He’s been lost ever since he left home.”

_Could have lost him, splattered against the mountainside, tumbled over the edge, could have, could have, could have..._

“He should never have come.”

_There cannot be silence so soon after sound, no, no, please, mercy, nearly lost him, nearly lost my very heart..._

“I should never have run out my door.”

_Yes, let him go, let him be safe, Mahal, mercy, let there be song not silence..._

 

* * *

 

The pain was incredible, but he would not be ended like this, beheaded like a cockerel while the Defiler looked on. Every desperate movement was fresh torment, wracking his punctured guts and making muscle scream for pity, but he needed a sword in his hand more than he needed his next breath. He needed his _sword_ —

But then he saw the halfling, fierce and quick as lightning, appearing from the flames to tear into orc flesh with all the fury of an entire dwarven army. He saw his heart, his very own, with face twisted in rage and fear, and Thorin could not breathe, could not think except

_Bilbo—_

And then he knew no more.

 

* * *

 

The embrace was, perhaps, not the wisest decision of Thorin’s life, and not merely because of the bitter ache in his ribs. Holding Bilbo in his arms, even once, was more than he could sensibly bear.

There would be no level-headed, practical gestures from this point forward; Thorin had held the voice of his Heartsong pressed tightly against his chest, as his actual heart hammered madly for its other half, and all good intentions were irrevocably lost. For good or ill, Thorin Oakenshield had found the partner of his soul, and he would do anything and everything to claim him.

But what if his need was purely one-sided? What if the bond was not complete, strange and foreign as it was? There was no guarantee that Bilbo was tied to him, bonded down deeper than blood and bone, as he was to the halfling. This hobbit, whose dreams were free of fated song, but whose flesh might hold his answer, inked by fortune...

What if this was simply madness, bred in the bone as well? He had watched his grandfather and father succumb to the dark, twisting paths of lunacy, each in his own way. Could Thorin trust his own mind?

He needed to know if his name was scrawled on Bilbo Baggins’ skin. It was that simple.

And, as chance would have it, Middle Earth itself provided an opportunity.

 

* * *

 

The river was lovely and brisk, perfect for scrubbing off the worst of the goblin and cave stink that clung to him. It was, at that moment, a more welcome prospect than the nicest, deepest, bubbliest bathtub Bilbo had ever seen.

Stripping quickly, any last dredges of shame forgotten in favour of getting clean again, Bilbo piled his clothes on the smooth, stony bank and waded in, barely paying any attention to the dozen or so dwarves splashing about nearby. His binding stayed tied, but grit and other foul substances had soaked into it, or snuck beneath to irritate his skin, and after a few moments of scrubbing the sopping cotton with a thick cake of clove soap, he gave up the attempt at modesty.

Still, he turned his back to the others as he plucked at the wet knot, loosening rarely removed fabric one tiny bit at a time. The soap helped with that at least, slicking the cotton, and after a few practiced tugs, the entire mess fluttered free under the river’s current.

His wrist was paler than the rest of his skin, nearly bone-white next to the slight tan of his hands, and the wan stripe of colour made his Mark stand out all the more brilliantly. Scrubbing his binding quickly, washing away what felt like an entire soup bowl’s worth of sand and dried mud, Bilbo was not at all prepared for the feel of a huge, callused hand landing upon his bare nape, gripping gently.

He may have hollered, just a tiny bit, and perhaps jumped nearly out of his skin. The noise he made certainly _wasn’t_ a shriek, no matter what Fili and Kili tried to claim later.

Looming at his back, far too close and too entirely naked for any sort of propriety, Thorin at least had the good manners to look ever so slightly sheepish about startling him. Bilbo had his wrist tucked against his chest instantly, wrapping his binding with expert speed, and he jerked away with a startled grunt when Thorin’s free hand (the one not _still_ lightly cupping the back of Bilbo’s neck) darted out to take hold of his arm.

“ _Pardon_ me,” he snapped, sharper than he’d intended, and fastened his binding securely in a tight, one-handed knot as he stepped back to put some space between them. Thorin was staring at the bit of cloth with incredibly intense scrutiny, as though the door to Erebor itself was hidden under the band of green cotton, and Bilbo had never felt his cheeks go quite so hot, quite so quickly.

After a moment of gawking, Thorin shook his head roughly, like a pony shooing a fly. Long, wet tendrils of hair flew back over his broad, thickly muscled shoulders, and _oh_ they were both so very naked, and Bilbo needed to stop looking _right that instant_. “Are you injured?”

“I— Sorry?” Of course, the binding and the blood red lines of the Mark; Bilbo curled his right hand around his wrist, calling up a small, reassuring smile. He did not allow his eyes to follow the thick whorls of hair that trailed down the solid wall of Thorin's chest, and even lower, down under the water (which was another direction Bilbo very purposefully did not look). “No, not injured, nothing like that. I’m fine, apart from a few bruises.”

Thorin looked unconvinced, expression set in stubborn lines as his gaze shifted from Bilbo’s face, down to his binding, and back up again. Already aware that their exchange was drawing an audience, Bilbo shrugged and tilted his head toward the other dwarves, clustered just downstream.

“It’s my Mark,” he said, plainly and without hesitation. “As I told the others, hobbits have a Mark, much like you dwarves have a Heartsong. And it is rather private.”

“Oh! Didn't think you had a Mark, Bilbo; you never said.” Splashing nearer, soaked hair plastered over his face from a dunking, Kili didn't seem to notice the dark look his uncle had levelled in his direction. Not, at least, until a shove from Fili alerted him to the glare, and both young dwarves slunk back like scolded pups.

“It's private,” Bilbo repeated, not unkindly, and went back to washing up. He still had clothes to clean, in addition to scrubbing himself.

Bilbo had no idea what to make of Thorin's frustrated snort, very nearly what could be termed a _growl_ in polite circles, but when he turned to look, the dwarf was already moving away, stalking off through the water.

Bilbo's Tookish side made sure to note that the view from behind was just as impressive as from the front, while his Baggins side made certain the tips of his ears were burning red as hot coals.


	4. Chapter 4

They came upon Beorn's hall that afternoon, though Gandalf didn't manage to persuade the skinchanger to welcome the entire company until just before sundown. Four walls, a roof, and a generous meal did a great deal to improve Bilbo's humour, even if Thorin had very nearly managed to spill vegetable soup, a bowl of honey, and two separate mugs of mead all over him since they'd all tucked in.

Bilbo was more than willing to forgive the unusual clumsiness, even if he was invariably the unfortunate recipient; a bit of unsteadiness was likely to be expected after being gnawed by a warg, after all. Thorin's mounting annoyance with his own awkwardness was obvious, and it simply served to make Bilbo even more tolerant; the pride of a dwarf, and especially a dwarven king, was a touchy thing.

And if Bilbo made a point of refilling Thorin's mug for him, it could be explained away as a friendly overture between companions, rather than assistance. Thorin, doubtlessly, would not have responded well to anything approaching blatant coddling; Bilbo needed to be more subtle than that, even if his hands twitched to lay a soothing balm over the purpling bruises creeping up from Thorin's beard and across his nose, blackening around one steely blue eye.

Subtlety still earned him a searching look, not _quite_ wary, but also the barest hint of a smile quirking at the edges of Thorin's mouth. It reminded Bilbo of the moment they'd shared atop the Carrock, standing together with Erebor standing proud and lonesome in the distance. It reminded him of Thorin's words, and the welcome strength of his unexpected embrace— his _acceptance_.

 _I have never been so wrong in all my life._

The feeling that had taken root in Bilbo's chest was warmer than Beorn's great hearth, and showed no signs of burning out anytime soon.

 

* * *

 

Balin very nearly buried his face in his hands as Thorin fumbled with another mug of sweet, heady mead, sloshing it over the tabletop but not managing to get more than a drop or two on the hobbit's wrist. Someone needed to do something before poor Bilbo ended up doused with an entire pitcher of cream.

Considering the average cleverness, or even basic good sense their company usually exhibited, Balin wasn't holding out a great deal of hope that _someone_ would be anyone except himself.

When Bilbo began pouring drinks, filling Thorin's mug for him, it was quite obviously more self-preservation than anything else. And yet, the smile that lit up Thorin's eyes and lifted his mouth was enough to make Balin sigh, growing sentimental as he went deeper into his own cups.

This was not simple infatuation, that much was crystal clear.

It wasn't completely unheard of to find the voice of a Heartsong among other races, though he had never considered such an oddity might occur in the House of Durin. It was generally considered a sign of mixed blood somewhere in a family line, but Thorin's ancestry could be traced back generations, entirely dwarven.

Their Mr. Baggins was more than he appeared— Balin had known as much since the wee fellow had come dashing up upon their ponies, with a glint in his eyes and his contract flapping like a flag behind him. 

It might be strange, but it was _good,_ and Balin was confident that conclusion was not simply a product of strong mead and old memories.

And in these dark, difficult times, good things sometimes needed a bit of a push to get going.

 

* * *

 

“Thorin, come here a moment. Here, take this.”

“Balin? Where did you— I was certain this was lost—”

“A few things made it out from Goblin Town, laddie. A spot battered, perhaps, but still in working order. Still whole.”

“Still... aye. Aye, battered, but whole. Thank you, my dear Balin.”

“Ah, you can thank me by putting it to good use.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more to come, hopefully this weekend! Contents including but not limited to: harp playing, more awkward Thorin, and (as you might expect with a kink meme fill) some gratuitous but probably fairly fluffy dwarf/hobbit boning like _whoa._ <3


	5. Chapter 5

Bilbo was sitting on one of the new bedrolls Beorn had provided, considering how best to approach mending his waistcoat, when he first heard the sound— a lilting pluck of strings, tuneless and testing, but still peculiarly beautiful. Glancing up from the sewing kit, borrowed from Dori, Bilbo certainly wasn’t expecting to see their regal leader hunched over a small golden harp, brow furrowed with concentration as he tuned the thing with a strange, bone-handled tool. From the very first evening of their acquaintance, when the company had invaded Bilbo’s smial with all the decorum of ravenous stampeding cows, the other dwarves had always been quite eager to break out their various instruments and play a few ditties.

But not once during their entire journey thus far had Thorin brought out a harp. Bilbo was more than a little intrigued, especially since even without a proper melody, the gentle trill of the strings was enough to catch his breath in his throat. It was just lovely...

It wouldn’t do to stare, however, and Bilbo forced himself to turn back to his mending, slipping strong black thread through the tiny iron needle. The thread was entirely the wrong colour, but by this point his weskit was ruined far beyond style; functionality was the vital part, and Bilbo had come to appreciate the versatility provided by extra layers of clothing. No wonder most of his dwarven companions looked as though they’d gotten dressed at least twice over, each outfit atop the other.

There weren’t extra buttons to be had, though Bifur was kind enough to offer his skills in carving some new ones (at least, that’s what Bofur had claimed his cousin meant, between grumbled Khuzdul and rough gestures). For the moment, however, Bilbo was happy for the opportunity to stitch up a few of the worst tears and tatters.

The strumming notes grew bolder, and even easier on the ear as Thorin brought the instrument into its proper bearings, and before long, the rhythmic plucking developed into a slow, mellow sort of tune. It was nothing like the cheery, light-hearted songs the others played around their campfires, but neither was it a mournful, unfathomable dirge the like of which they had sung in his living room that first night.

This was a measured, steady tune, though not at all plodding, and each note was struck so clear and sweetly... it sounded as hopeful as green buds in spring, and strong as ancient tree roots, dug deep into the foundations of the earth. It reminded Bilbo of the cosiness of his featherbed in the dead of winter, the feel of plush Midsummer clover under his feet, and the smell of fresh buttered bread, still hot from the oven. Dragging thread through brocade, Bilbo couldn’t help but smile as the melody curled warmly around him, snug as a goose down duvet.

It tickled somewhere deep in his mind, like a memory long faded, and without too much thought at all, Bilbo began to hum along, softly to himself. He couldn’t recall ever having heard the song before, but it was so oddly familiar he must have done... perhaps a lullaby from his mother? Or a few whistled notes overheard from a traveller at the Green Dragon? The former felt more likely; there was a strange sort of sentiment bubbling up in his chest, as though each deftly plucked note was a whispered word from someone very dear.

Finishing up a neat row of stitches, Bilbo took a deep breath and glanced up again, only to freeze like a cornered hare under the power of Thorin’s fixed stare.

He had no earthly idea what he’d done to garner such a look, unblinking and fierce enough to send his pulse thudding, but Bilbo didn’t imagine it was anything _good_. It hadn’t been all that long since Thorin was sniping and snarling at his every move, calling him little more than a burden upon their great quest, and while opinions had thankfully and momentously improved, that was no guarantee Bilbo would always be able to _stay_ on their leader’s good side. What he’d done to provoke Thorin this time, he wasn’t entirely certain, but he thought he might have at least a theory about the nature of his blunder.

The other dwarves all made music together, with each joining and leaving a tune as they saw fit. It was an informal thing, a bit of merrymaking among companions, but Thorin had never joined in. The only time Bilbo had ever heard him sing had been that first night, when those powerful words had resonated through the very foundations of Bag End— that had seemed almost sacred, certainly reverent, and Thorin had led the rest as they harmonized, voice rolling like thunder.

This time, not a single dwarf pulled out a whistle, banged a drum, or even slapped his knee in time with Thorin’s strumming of his striking harp, nor did any voices join in to flesh out the tune. No voices except Bilbo’s, humming his way into a terrible gaffe, no doubt. Shifting his gaze around the room confirmed that Thorin was not the only dwarf gawking at him: most were engaged in other things, but those few others near enough to have heard him looked taken aback, to varying degrees. Even Gandalf, perched on a big chair with his pipe sending curls of fragrant smoke towards the blackened rafters, was regarding Bilbo with an utterly astounded lift to his bushy grey brows.

Bilbo, for his part, felt equal parts embarrassed and annoyed— between the blunders of his own tactless tongue getting away from him and these queer dwarf manners, he was forever fumbling, flinging insults where none were ever intended.

Bundling up the sewing kit with some haste, Bilbo decided his best method of dealing with this was strategic retreat, followed by an apology in the morning if Thorin still seemed stroppy about the whole thing. It was too late in the evening, and he was simply too stuffed full of honey cake and mead to properly deal with placating another unintended slight to _absurd_ dwarven etiquette.

Folding his weskit, Bilbo tucked it up to use as a pillow and lay down without a word, turning his back on the fire and on his companions. His new bedroll was thick charcoal wool, actually a bit nicer than the one he’d lost in the goblin tunnels, and he quickly snuggled up in his little nest. 

Thorin’s harp twanged sharply, discordant and loud, as though his fingers had forgotten their astonishing deftness of only a moment before. Bilbo wrinkled his nose; hobbits had customs as well, though none of his companions had seemed overly concerned with whether or not they had been stepping on _his_ toes (in a figurative sense). They raided his pantry, tracked mud through his tidy home, teased him when days of riding his pony put a hitch in his walk, and didn’t spend even a moment’s consideration on the suggestion of _occasionally_ stopping for second breakfast.

They were a rough bunch, and the fact that they ribbed each other as much as they ribbed him had actually served to make him feel more at ease among them (eventually), but goodness gracious, they could certainly get touchy about the silliest things.


	6. Chapter 6

It was very obviously a dream— Bilbo hadn’t felt this comfortable since before he’d stepped foot out of Bag End— but it was quite a lovely dream, so he didn’t waste time dwelling upon such paltry details.

He was lying on a sinfully soft cushion of some sort, possibly even his own mattress, with a cool sheets caressing his skin and a firm, impossibly warm body pressed up tightly against his back. It was too dark to see any details, but he wasn’t at all nervous about his unknown bedmate (male, _definitely_ male, if the rather impressive bits nestled against his bum were any indication). One powerful arm was looped around Bilbo’s waist, holding him close, while his head was resting on the person’s other arm. It was safe, peaceful, and perfectly, inexplicably homey.

They were both lying on their left sides, fit together like spoons in a drawer, and Bilbo’s arm was extended across the sheets, his fingers tangled loosely with another larger, roughly callused hand. Something, he guessed a thumb, was brushing oh so softly over the bare skin of his wrist, stroking across his Mark. There was sweet breath ghosting over his ear, teasing the sensitive tip, and Bilbo knew with absolute certainty that the person was going to speak, to whisper something gorgeous, and then perhaps even lean in for a kiss— a kiss Bilbo would be more than happy to allow, and reciprocate, and _deepen_ — 

He had never felt so very content in his entire life. So, of course, that was when he woke.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo was going to murder a dwarf.

After the existence of his Mark had become public knowledge, thanks to Thorin’s concern at the river, he had known it would only be a matter of time before either Fili or Kili gave in to their reckless curiosity. He had accepted it as inevitable, to a degree, but now their snooping had pulled him out from perhaps the best dream he’d ever experienced.

Bilbo was not nearly charitable enough to let that go unpunished.

The hall was dark, with the hearth banked down to warm coals, and Bilbo’s eyes were bleary with sleep, but he still managed to grab hold of the meddlesome beast who was tugging at his binding.

“Leave off,” he whispered harshly, tightening his fingers around the handful of thick hair he’d snared. His prisoner jerked back, but Bilbo had no intention of letting go; the price of freedom was either taking a savage scolding from a very annoyed hobbit, or losing a hunk of scalp. He felt the cord of a braid brush his forearm— it was Fili, then. “Oh, you nosy little _weasel_. What do you think—”

Sitting up, Bilbo blinked in the dim firelight, trailing off with a choked, throaty noise. Thorin was kneeling beside his bedroll, glaring daggers down at his own knees; his hair was tangled around Bilbo’s tight fist.

“Oh!” Releasing his hold quicker than he’d drop a scalding pot, Bilbo wrapped his arms around himself, completely stymied for something to say. He had just called Thorin Oakenshield a _weasel_ and _pulled his hair_. “I...oh...”

“My apologies,” Thorin said roughly, eyes still fixed downward, then cleared his throat and stood without another word of explanation. Bilbo didn’t have a chance to piece a single question together before Thorin was off, moving across the shadowed hall as quickly as possible without actually breaking into a run, disappearing into the cloaking shadows, headed towards Beorn’s veranda. 

“What...” Bilbo said to no one in particular, his own voice reedy and strange in his ears, then said it again. “What just... _what_?”

“What?” Oin, seated over by the fire on watch shift, lifted hand to cup around his ear in the absence of his unfortunate horn. “Hm?” 

Sighing, Bilbo waved off the dwarf’s concern. “Nothing, no, nothing. Sorry.”

He got an aggravated _harrumph_ for his troubles, which Bilbo was rather certain he didn’t deserve, but then Oin muttered: “Fool hobbit... must be deaf as a post.”

And everything clicked into place. 

 

* * *

 

Perhaps if he’d been more Took than Baggins, Bilbo might have rushed out onto the veranda, his binding unknotted and flying loose behind him, and presented his Mark to Thorin Oakenshield with a flourish and a cheeky grin.

But (occasional adventures with dwarven companies and wizards aside) Bilbo was indeed a Baggins of Bag End, and even a Baggins with Took blood in his veins sometimes needed a bit of time to mull things over before he took a monumental leap. So Bilbo laid back down, folding his hands over his madly thudding heart, and stared up into the dark rafters.

This... this was all a bit mad.

Thorin's very specifically directed clumsiness at supper made a peculiar sort of sense now, as did his focused interest in Bilbo's binding at the river. The sneaky sod was trying to peep at his Mark, but as for the reason _why_ — well, that was where Bilbo's thoughts jumbled together in a bramble of impossibility.

There was no way, absolutely _no way_ , that Thorin Oakenshield thought Bilbo was his fated partner, or intended, or his Heartsong's voice— however dwarves phrased it.

His Mark was itching like a healing scab, serving as a completely unnecessary reminder of the secret it kept. He didn't need to untie his binding and look to know its shape; Bilbo had each thin red line memorized, even if he could only guess at their meanings.

_Thorin._

_Thorin Oakenshield._

No, it wasn't possible. Pressing his palms against his face, taking an opportunity to hide from absolutely everything for just one quiet moment, Bilbo felt the urge to bite at his binding— to yank the cloth off with his teeth, tearing well-worn cotton to useless shreds.

He didn't, in the end, but he did gnaw on it a little, which was a terrible habit he thought he'd left behind as a young lad. Certainly his father had told him off enough times about decency and ruining his teeth, but the soft give of the fabric in his mouth was a childish comfort, much like a stuffed toy or a lullaby—

 _A lullaby_.

Oh. Oh, goodness.

Every bit of Bilbo's skin, from the top of his head to the thick soles of his feet, was suddenly engulfed in faint but insistent tingling. It was like being dunked in a perfectly hot bath, and Bilbo couldn't stifle his gasp at the sensation, dropping his hands and fisting them in his blankets. His binding laid wet against his wrist, damp with his spit; it was one single point of coolness compared to the rest of him, flushing hot.

The harp, and that strangely beautiful song. Thorin's harp, Thorin's song, winding around Bilbo with the sense of home and comfort, of sweetness and heat, and the pulse of his own heart echoed in the melody.

“Heartsong,” Bilbo whispered, laying his left hand flat over his chest. His heart felt as though it was making quite the effort to beat straight through his ribs, and his Mark throbbed in time.

After a few deep, calming breaths, Bilbo lost the sparkling white spots dancing around the edges of his vision— he wasn't about to _faint_ , confound it all.

“Heartsong,” he said again, just as softly as before, and the word felt like a weight on his tongue, heavy and no small thing to ignore.

He slapped his other hand over his mouth when the giggles started, desperately muffling the noise before he ended up rousing the whole company. Having his world-changing revelations in relative privacy was a much more pleasant notion.

 

* * *

 

Their host had bade them stay inside the hall for the night, and considering Gandalf’s warnings about Beorn’s temper, Thorin did not think it wise to actually retreat out to the veranda, no matter how welcome a few bracing lungfuls of night air might have been. Fortunately, the hall was grand enough, with enough shadowed corners, to provide a temporary sanctuary from his own idiocy.

Blasted hobbits and their nimble fingers; the knot of cotton had been impossibly tight and too intricately wound to navigate in the darkness. When those same fingers had grabbed hold of Thorin’s hair, tethering him securely but not painfully, the resulting maelstrom of aggravation, embarrassment, and even sudden arousal had stolen any coherence of thought or speech he may have once possessed.

Creeping away from the company, intent on solitude, Thorin avoided the huge grey hounds lying piled together and snoring, and pressed his back against a pillar. He didn’t hear the padding of bare feet following, but that meant little when their unlikely burglar was indeed a sneaky little creature. Sneaky, and fiery when riled— the sharpness of his rebuke, especially roughened by sleep, had sent a wholly improper shudder down Thorin’s spine.

Impatience had made him imprudent; a change of strategy was called for, immediately. 

If the cloth couldn’t be untied stealthily, then another method of removal was required, and Bilbo’s damnable clinging to secrecy wasn’t making things simple. Fire was not a risk Thorin would willingly take, _never_ ; he would not entertain the notion of even singeing it slightly. A blade would be safer, both more easily controlled and less likely to call up dark memories, but still dangerous, and difficult to mask as accidental. Bilbo was likely already on his guard, and the hobbit’s tendency towards quick, reflexive defense did not bode well for the possibility of slicing the cloth free without injury or notice. Perhaps he could arrange some sort of unexpected obstacle to snag it, like catching it on a buckle—

Footsteps approaching, quiet but booted, made him tense. Whoever it was did not continue on, didn’t leave him be as he’d hoped they might, but instead stopped just beside his hiding place. When Thorin glared over at his newest vexation, Dwalin didn’t cow even slightly.

“That was quite the show at supper.” Most of his face was lost in shadow, but Dwalin’s tone sounded far too amused. “Though never thought I’d see the day you’d be wasting good mead.” 

Thorin didn’t answer, crossing his arms and hunkering deeper into his coat with a warning grumble. A warning which was, as expected, completely ignored.

“I know better than to ask if you’re sure,” Dwalin said after a moment or two, most of his humour fading into gruffness. And if there was a twinge of old grief clinging to the edges of those curt words, Thorin would not mention a thing. “Only one reason a dwarf ever makes such an arse of himself as you're doing, unless he's too wet-eared to even grow his first whiskers.”

Thorin snorted, all too aware of how true that was; he was behaving like a foolish stripling, and that chafed fiercely. “And what would you have me do?”

“I'd say just bend him over a barrel, but that's how I ended up with this, if you'll recall.” Rubbing the thick scar that bisected his right brow, Dwalin's mouth twisted up in a grin. Despite everything, Thorin couldn't help returning the crooked, bittersweet look.

“Aye, I recall.” As the story went, there had been a great deal of blood, a fair number of punches and furious curses thrown about, and the shrieking barkeep had called the city guard. That night had apparently ended with Dwalin stumbling through Erebor, scalp split and singing at the top of his lungs, with a brawny, flame-haired young warrior laughing along at his side. “I imagine Bilbo would appreciate a slightly more diplomatic approach, my friend.”

“Diplomatic as a crotch full of hot soup and scalded balls?” Dwalin's hand landed hard on his shoulder, gripping, steadfast. “King or no, I'll still wallop you if you keep pissing about.  Fair warning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad folks are enjoying this, including awkward!Thorin (who is a joy to torment, truly). And yes, writing about dwarves who've lost their song makes me more than a little misty, too.
> 
> Thank you very much for reading-- more to come soonish, with any luck at all!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so here's the deal: this is a chapter all about the Heartsongs of Thorin's company. It doesn't have any Thorin/Bilbo shenanigans at all, nor does it technically progress the plot, so if you want to skip it, you can.
> 
> Because fair warning, it's a bit angsty, and there are pairings implied that might not butter your muffin.
> 
> I'll list the pairings below, just in case you want to spoil it before reading, but I think this might work a bit better if you don't know what's coming. I leave that up to you, gentle reader.

**Dwalin**

Dwalin was accustomed to the silence; his dreams were nothing more than memories now, faint reflections of hearty laughter, broad, granite-hard shoulders, and a lost voice.

But there were some days when he woke to the faint strains of a lighthearted tune, sung by an unexpectedly gentle voice; that voice was as elusive as smoke once the haze of sleep faded from his mind, familiar but strange. After the first confused moments of waking, those days never failed to tear fiercely into his chest, opening wounds long-scabbed but never quite healed to scaring.

He had knelt in the blood-soaked mud before the doors of Moria and held Hrokir's body, nearly cleaved in two from neck to hip. He had bellowed and raged at absent gods, and wept with his brow pressed hard against his brother's, whose grief he understood as never before.

He knew the song in his dreams was only a cruel joke of his imagination, no matter how real it seemed in the stillness of dawn.

 

* * *

**Balin**

He had never favoured a beard full of braids, not even as a lad, but his lovely Belren had been forever resplendent in twisting plaits and elegant silver beads, more beautiful than any queen. All of her gleaming baubles had been skillfully forged by her own hands, or inherited from her mother; a family of respected silversmiths for generations.

Dwarven courting could last for years, especially when one of a pair was as brilliantly strong-willed and independent as Belren. She would not bear talk of marriage, but Balin knew he was fortunate she hadn't been the sort to dismiss him in favour of devoting herself entirely to her craft. 

She was often a serious, sharp-tongued woman, but for him alone, her smile was easy to earn and brighter than the Arkenstone. He had absolutely no doubt she loved him as fiercely as he did her, and not simply because she whispered that very thing into the crook of his neck whenever he held her close.

It had been a joke— a moment of playfulness, kindly meant— when he woke one morning jangling like a spoon drawer. There were no finely engraved barrels swinging from the neat plaits she'd worked loosely into his beard as he slept, as most other warriors his age wore, but a score of tiny silver bells, like the sort some wee girl-children fancied in their curls.

He had laughed until his sides ached, kissing her through a chorus of tinny jingling.

Even now, decades removed from the freshest bite of grief, he often woke with the fading ring of bells faintly in his ears, an echo of dreams where once her voice had been.

 

* * *

**Fili & Kili**

Fili and Kili were aware of the whispers, the rumours that they heard each other's voice, binding them tightly in soul as well as blood and love, but it wasn't true. Each night, they both heard bell-like songs, sung by joyful, laughing women they'd never met.

To find the voice of a Heartsong within family was not entirely unheard of, but it was rare and odd, and seldom discussed. Rarer still would have been a Heartsong heard in chorus, rather than a single, precious voice.

Each night, Fili and Kili curled near one another, sharing warmth and the comfort of kin, and dreamed of sweet voices, unknown but already adored. And if there was a harmony beneath their songs, each hearing familiar masculine tones wound around the root of their Heartsong, blending together in duet, that was no one else's business but theirs.

 

* * *

**Bombur**

His wife, darling woman she was, always sang when she cooked. Puttering around the kitchen, whether rolling dough or chopping meat, she was forever caught up in some ditty or other, tapping her feet and swinging her generous hips in that sweet, mesmerizing way.

She couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, nor make even a decent pot of soup to save her life, but Bombur adored every discordant note and overcooked chicken. 

 

* * *

**Bofur**

His story wasn't so different than a lot of other folks'— their people were scattered to the four winds, after all, and travel between dwarven settlements was rarer all the time. There were dwarves twice his age who'd not yet heard the voice of their Heartsong outside of dreams.

He had heard his voice singing once, however, which Bofur supposed put him a bit ahead of the game (on the very odd occasion, he _almost_ regretted that happenstance; it might have ached a bit less on lonely nights if he only had his dreams, instead of that vivid memory). He'd been a young lad in Erebor, bit younger than Ori was now, when he'd heard some bawdy song shouted through the windows of a tavern, and the blessed _rightness_ of it had stopped him dead.

He remembered staring down at his scruffy, filthy togs in a right panic, then legging it back home for a scrub and a change. A voice like that deserved better than some tatty vagabond with dusty trousers and a drooping moustache.

Of course, then there'd been a bit of a calamity, and Bofur had been rather distracted from his notion of primping, what with the dragon and all. 

Thankfully, his voice hadn't quieted after Smaug's fury had swept through and destroyed so much; to this very day, his Heartsong was still vibrant and gorgeous in his dreams. But he had no idea what sort of body was attached to his voice, beyond _likely a bloke,_ and no one had felt quite like singing on the miserable slog from their ruined mountain.

Bofur didn't know if the voice of his Heartsong had travelled with them all the way to the Blue Mountains, but after this many years listening for a single familiar note ringing out amongst their neighbours, he doubted it. More likely, the bloke had been among those groups that had broken off along the route, settling here and there as they fancied. 

It was precisely those sort of splintered groups that might be tempted back by Erebor reclaimed. While the promise of adventure, treasure, and perhaps even some free beer had been more than good enough reasons to sign on to Thorin's quest, Bofur might still have nursed a tiny spark of hope for something more.

A song for their victory, perhaps.

 

* * *

**Oin**

Tucked away in a hidden pocket of his coat, sewn into the lining above his heart, Oin kept a small locket that was a near twin to the one his brother was forever flashing about. It had only one portrait inside, and thin braid of honey brown hair, curled up upon itself.

He hadn't opened the locket in decades, but never slept without having it in arm's reach. And when he woke, he touched his hand against the shape of it, greeting her as he greeted each new day.

 

* * *

**Gloin**

  
It was not exaggeration to say his wife was a comely lass, with soft hair the colour of copper spilling down her back and sprouting thick from her cheeks, and Gloin was more proud than he could say that she had chosen to plight her troth to him. Heartsongs were no guarantees of partnerships, to say nothing of actual marriage— dwarves were stubborn people by nature, and not even the greatest quakes of fate could always shift a foundation that solid.

They married on the road to Ered Luin, unwilling to waste another moment after stumbling clear of all that tragedy. There had been no great ceremony, nor much celebrating save a muted cheer roused around their huddled camp— too much had been lost, and too many were grieving— but Dorbela had been a vision of loveliness, muddy hems, tangled braids, and all. 

At the time, Oin had been in no fit state to do more than press their brows together, face drawn tight with his own sorrow, and Gloin had been humbled by even that show of brotherly affection.

Later, when the Blue Mountains vaulted high above them, and visions of horrific flames and acrid smoke were reserved for only the worst nightmares, Oin had presented him with a small, finely crafted locket... a match to one Gloin knew his brother still carried, more treasured than mithril. 

Dorbela fit beautifully within it, painted in regal lines. And later, dear Gimli would join his mother there, tucked close to his father's heart.

 

* * *

**Dori**

Dori could scarcely remember the sound of his Heartsong, which was a blessing, in its own way. He looked upon Dwalin, Balin, Oin, and others he had known with silenced songs, and he saw deep rends of sorrow, cut down to bone and marrow. His own heartache was probably easier to bear— nameless, faceless, and carried so long that he knew no different.

But there were occasional times, in the quietest hours of the night, when Dori would wake in the deafening silence, panting and chilled. Empty, save for the knot clenched tight in his belly.

Those were the nights he knew it wasn't any easier, no matter how much he wished it to be so.

 

* * *

**Nori**

His brothers didn't know it (and he had no plans to ever inform them, either, especially not Dori), but Nori had found the voice of his Heartsong years ago, in a seedy tavern tucked away in a corner of Ered Luin. A handsome young lad with eyes like emeralds, likely no more than seventy, humming and singing absently to himself as he wiped down tables— Nori had nearly slopped ale down his front at the sound of those husky tones, plucked directly from his dreams.

But life was so rarely the stuff of tales and fables, despite what Ori might think. After a few moments of listening to that precious voice, letting every quiet sound sink down into his bones, Nori had dropped a few extra coins under his mug and left the tavern without a single glance backward.

That green-eyed lad hadn't deserved to be tied to a thief and grifter, even one as devilishly charming and good with his hands as Nori considered himself. Keeping trouble from tailing him back home was difficult enough with just his brothers to worry about.

 

* * *

**Ori**

There were many things still mysterious about Heartsongs, even though dwarves had heard them in their dreams for as long as memories were recorded and kept. Much of their knowledge was based upon conjecture and conflicting tales, but some of the more common theories were simply taken as fact.

Ori knew, for example, that dwarves were only ever supposed to hear one Heartsong in their whole lives— _everyone_ knew that. One song, one voice (though there were stories about trios or more, uncommon groups bonded as close as any pair), and the death of a partner would bring nothing but terrible silence. Ori hadn't even been a twinkle in their Mam's eye when Dori's voice had gone quiet, and in all the years since, his brother had never spoken of hearing another voice.

Growing up in Ered Luin, surrounded by kith and kin who waxed on about the splendour of Erebor and the strength of Durin's line, Ori had heard many a tale about Dwalin, son of Fundin, including the tragic massacre outside Moria.

His brothers called him childish and not-so-clever, but Ori was wise enough to say nothing at all the first time he was bowled over by Mister Dwalin's rough, rich brogue rumbling over the strains of his violin. He never told _anyone_ that the voice in his dreams sounded just the same, pitched deep as thunder and warmer than his thickest, wooliest cardigan. If he had flushed and retreated back to his books, stammering excuses about sleepiness, that hadn't been terribly out of the ordinary.

Dwarves only ever got one Heartsong, and Mister Dwalin's had gone quiet when Ori was only a wee badger clinging to his Mam's apron strings. Even now, all grown, he was still a weedy runt; certainly, he wasn't the sort to turn Dwalin's head, nice as it was to dream it.

Whenever they shared tunes 'round the fire, he was cowardly enough to only pretend to sing along.

But he dared to wish sometimes, in the most private corner of his heart, for courage... just enough that he might try banishing the ghosts from Dwalin's eyes.

 

* * *

**Bifur**

Bifur remembered enough to know that the song in his head was different now than it had been, long ago. Trying to recall the old song was a futile aggravation that made his skull throb and feel full to bursting, like a pot about to boil over... but the sweet, lilting voice was still beautiful no matter the melody.

And the voice sang all the time, like a constant murmur in his ear; he was never alone. That was different as well, and he secretly pitied his cousins and kin who could only hear their voices in dreams, or even crueler, couldn’t hear them at all. He couldn’t fathom the notion of such loneliness.

Sometimes, in peaceful moments, he wondered what her face might look like. Dark hair, he guessed for no reason at all, with soft, curling whiskers and kind eyes. He never thought to wonder if his voice still sang in her head, or if it simply muttered now, tuneless and rough. He never thought to wonder if she slept in silence.

He did think, perhaps, that he had once understood the words the voice was singing.

But gentle melody and nonsense still made him smile, so that was alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relationships/Bonds mentioned are:
> 
> Gloin and Bombur with their respective wives.
> 
> Oin, Dwalin, Balin, Nori, Dori, Bifur, and Bofur with dwarven OCs. 
> 
> Fili and Kili with unknown dwarven women, but also with each other. Can be interpreted as Heartsongs not always being sexual (which they're not) or full on Durincest if you wish.
> 
> And Ori unrequited/unrealised bond with Dwalin.


	8. Chapter 8

Thorin did eventually slink back to his bedroll, keeping well clear of a certain lump of blankets and the hobbit beneath. Even if he had figured out some plan to salvage the situation (which he hadn't yet), the thought of facing Bilbo at the moment was more than he wished to risk. In his current state of mind, there was no telling what sort of silt-brained idiocy would come pouring from his lips, or rule his movements.

Dwalin had been right in saying that finding the voice of a Heartsong was explanation enough for a grown dwarf to act like a whiskerless whelp, but it wasn't an _excuse_. Especially not for a son of Thrain, a dwarf of Durin's line, and one who would be King Under the Mountain.

He needed more time, which was not truly a luxury they possessed, despite the distance still laid out before them. Their quest was perilous, and would grow even more so as they drew nearer to Erebor— orcs and goblins were deadly foes, particularly in numbers such as they'd faced thus far, but the dragon was another matter entirely. They had taken on a burglar to steal into the beast's lair, to observe, perhaps find some weakness to exploit, but now Thorin found his blood turned icy in his veins at the idea of sending Bilbo alone into the halls of his grandfather.

He would at least take the time for sleep; it would be unforgivable to allow such personal issues to cloud his mind and weaken him into exhaustion.

Shrugging off his coat, Thorin settled quickly, calling on every ounce of experience and willpower he possessed to force himself into an uneasy rest. Perhaps things would be clearer in the morning, though he wouldn't hold out too much hope for such a boon.

 

* * *

 

It was true that hobbits had some natural skill at sneaking and hiding— Gandalf had not exaggerated that, at least.

And what was true for your average hobbit, was even _truer_ for a certain hobbit in possession of a certain magical ring.

 

* * *

 

“Seems we've lost our wizard,” Bofur said over breakfast the next morning, swatting his brother's hand away from one of the many honey pots scattered over the long table. “Oi, get your own, you lump. You get crumbs all in it.”

“He scarpered just before first light,” Nori informed them all; since his watch shift had been latest, he would have been privy to Gandalf's departure. “Said he'd be back before supper, and not much else.”

Of course the wizard came and went as he pleased, as always, but disappearing without explanation was a vexing trick at this juncture. Thorin was not best pleased, eager to be off again despite the lingering ache in his ribs, but there was little to be done.

His mood, already foul, worsened significantly. One of the sheep milling about with serving dishes gave a frightened bleat when he deigned to glance in its direction, and the beast dropped a plate of griddle cakes before bounding off to crowd with its fellows. Balin and Fili, sitting on either side of him, shuffled ever so slightly away.

Kili, seated beside his brother, didn't appear to notice, distracted by his food and the apparent absence of another member of their company. “Bilbo still sleeping?” he asked, partly around a mouthful of bread. “Not like our hobbit to miss a meal.”

It had been Thorin's intention _not_ to notice Mr. Bilbo Baggins that day, but perhaps that was simply too much mercy for the gods to allow him. A look up and down the table did not reveal their burglar, as Kili had said, and Bilbo's bedroll appeared empty as well. 

He was increasingly nettled, more than a little concerned, and now _entirely_ finished with breakfast... Mahal preserve him from all maddening hobbits and well-meaning nephews.

Pushing his plate away, Thorin rose from the bench, and spoke in a tone that brooked precisely no argument whatsoever. “I'll fetch the halfling. He won't have wandered far, I imagine.”

The weight of several gazes followed him, but no one said a word in question; at least his descent into immature bumbling hadn't cost him the ability to effectively command these dwarves. That was something.

Fetching his coat from where it still lay on his bedroll, Thorin did a quick check of his gear as he scanned the hall, searching for a clue as to their hobbit's—

He froze stock-still, with one hand pressed against the front of his brigandine, beneath which hung his grandfather's key.

The shape and heft of that key was etched into his memory deeper and more permanent than the runes inscribed upon its surface. He knew the feel of it in his hand, the weight of it hanging from his neck, every angle and texture, and the faint scent of metal and age that clung to it.

The key... the key was still on its chain, secreted away between the girding of his armour and the beat of his heart, but there was something _more_.

Reaching into his collar, Thorin tugged the chain, drawing the key out. The drag of it against his shirt felt strange, almost rough, and when his fingers closed tight around the heirloom, he realized why.

Bound tightly around the key as one might wrap a gift, barely adding any bulk at all, was a length of green cotton. The fabric was soft against his skin, obviously well-worn, and the sight of it pushed every whisper of breath from his lungs.

_You foolhardy little creature..._

If he had been entirely in his right mind, rather than driven to distraction, Thorin might have noticed the addition sooner. Perhaps at the breakfast table, with his company looking on, and wouldn't that have been a sight.

Bilbo had certainly decided to be bold with this overture, but Thorin did not dare allow himself to assume the hobbit's intentions. Still, he could not stop the heat creeping up his neck, or the clenched sensation tightening deep in the centre of his chest.

Gathering the shreds of his composure, cloaking himself with as much firm solemnity as he could muster, Thorin left the cloth-wrapped key hanging outside his brigandine— if the hobbit had abandoned modesty, Thorin would not retreat either.

Now, he simply needed to find the quick-fingered little burglar.

 

* * *

 

It had been utterly nerve-wracking, even with the magic ring feeling like a strangely comforting lead weight round his finger, to sneak up on a sleeping Thorin Oakenshield and fiddle with such a valued possession, but Bilbo liked to think his mother would have been terribly proud of his daring. An old romantic, his mother— Belladonna Took, the same stunning beauty who'd worn no binding upon her empty left wrist for as long as Bilbo could remember, and who had coaxed and courted a fellow fated bachelor out from his lonely smial with sweet almond cakes, poetry, and wreathes of snowdrops and myrtle.

Bungo had been more subtle, more Baggins to the very core, always wearing a rusty brown binding over unmarked skin. Still, Bilbo had seen his father's wrist, bare and blank, or very rarely scrawled _Belladonna, Queen of Bag End_ in smeared, coal black ink.

As the child of a bachelor and a spinster, Bilbo had endured no end of whispers and teasing, and the strangeness of his own Mark hardly helped matters. Oh, Marks were meant to be so very private, of course, but propriety was rarely the concern of the bully— as a young lad, Bilbo had suffered the forced baring of his Mark on more than one occasion, as well as the gasps or jeers that followed.

And now, sitting out in a giant bear-man's garden amongst the lupins and the honeysuckle, with clover and buttercups dewy between his toes... now, Bilbo Baggins had bared his Mark willingly, _audaciously_ even. Now he sat, and worried anxious fingers over the buttonholes of his weskit, wishing for nothing more than a pipe of Longbottom leaf and a deep, dark hole to hide in. The cuff of his jacket tickled his skin, flashing hints of crimson lines whenever he shifted, and it took a great deal of self-restraint not to stuff his hand in his pocket, creep back into the hall, and fetch a napkin to cover himself up.

But he hadn't just removed his binding, he'd _given it away_ , to the very clot-headed, stubborn, barmy fool of a dwarf who'd been driving them both mad trying to sneak it off him.

Oh yes, his mother would have been over the moon with his Tookishness, and his father would have shrieked like a trod-upon cat.

“What in the world am I doing,” he said, pressing his forehead against his bent knees. The enormous bees, bobbing through the blossoms around him for their first sips of sweet pollen that morning, didn't offer an answer beyond a low, buzzing drone.

Thorin, on the other hand, had an opinion to offer.

“Hiding in the shrubbery, it looks like.” At the sound of the dwarf's voice, his inflection flat and utterly unreadable, Bilbo's head whipped up so fast he made himself dizzy. There, in the cool light of morning, standing only scant feet away, stood Thorin Oakenshield, with a green-bound bundle laying against his chest, hanging from a thick gold chain. “You were missed at breakfast, Master Hobbit.”

Without conscious thought, Bilbo felt his left hand flex, fisting in the cloth of his trousers and turning his wrist to press against his thigh. The movement did not go unnoticed, and Bilbo inhaled sharply when Thorin's eyes snapped towards his Mark, hawkish and gleaming like clear water.

He needed to say something, _anything_ , to stop the panicked fluttering threatening to overtake his guts and steal whatever remained of his nerve. He needed the right words, but with Thorin just _there_ , looking so very regal and not at all Hobbitish, all Bilbo could manage to grasp were doubts.

What if he'd gotten it all wrong, and Thorin didn't hear his voice at all? What if they'd both taken a few too many knocks to the head, and this ridiculous mix up was the result?

What if his Mark was something else, _someone_ else entirely?

And why would such a warrior, a _king_ , even a homeless king, choose a podgy, soft-palmed hobbit?

After a long moment of tense, loaded silence, Bilbo finally opened his mouth, hoping at least one of those questions would see its way clear from his mind to his tongue.

But what came out... well, what came out was a nonsense song his mother had bussed against his curls when she'd tucked him into bed as a wee bean of a lad. His words were quiet, the tune was simple and unadorned, but the expression that stole over Thorin's face spoke of awe.

Bilbo sang of lilies and starlings, and of the bonny River-daughter, and did not think to flinch when Thorin Oakenshield drew near and lowered himself to sit upon the soft grass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had no intention of ending this chapter right here, but time slipped away from me this weekend, so this is what I've got. 
> 
> Apologies for a shorter update than I'd planned— consider it hobbit-sized, with more to come as soon as I get a chance to write it.


	9. Chapter 9

The song petered off eventually, leaving them in the hush of the morning, and Bilbo very nearly started another song before reining himself in. Not only was the singing a good excuse not to go tripping over his tongue, but it also served to keep such an extraordinarily open expression on Thorin’s face— wide-eyed and slightly smiling, not entirely unlike the way he’d looked at distant Erebor from the top of the Carrock. The sight of it, and the knowledge that his daft warbling had put it there, made the tightness in Bilbo’s chest ease ever so slightly, blossoming into warmth instead.

The song had been momentary madness, perhaps, but it had also been a test of sorts.

He could hardly spend the rest of his days serenading, however; they did actually need to speak about things, no matter how nail-biting that prospect might seem. Quieting, Bilbo licked his dry lips, and watched as much of the stoniness returned along with the silence, as though shutters snapped closed in Thorin's eyes.

But the dour dwarf was still sitting in a patch of clover, looking perhaps a little absurd decked in his armour and thick furs amidst the season’s late flowers, more than close enough to reach out and touch— that had to count for something, surely.

“Hobbits,” Thorin said suddenly, gruff as gravel, startling Bilbo out of his contemplations. “Are marked with a name?”

Bilbo nodded, and Thorin’s stare sharpened even further, reminding Bilbo of nothing less than the keen edge of his own sword, gleaming blue with danger. When Thorin turned suddenly, gaze focusing toward the forest beyond, the loss of that severe attention felt rather like a shallow cut, removing immediate peril but leaving a sting behind.

“You never made—” Interrupting himself with an aggravated sort of growl, Thorin raised his chin imperiously and glared at the trees. One large hand had strayed up to rest against his chest, and his thumb stroked over the bound key. “You are an unexpectedly bold creature, Master Baggins, for a hobbit, but I understand why you would have made no mention of this before. I have treated you neither kindly nor fairly for most of our journey, and for that I am sorry.”

“So you’ve already said,” Bilbo replied, earning a twitch of Thorin’s head, but not even the barest flicker of a glance in his direction. “Thorin, what—”

“I know I’ve not likely endeared myself to you,” Thorin continued brusquely, as if Bilbo hadn’t uttered a word. “And my disrespect for your privacy of late has been deplorable, not befitting an heir of Durin or any decent dwarf. Any blame will be laid solely at my feet and no aspersions cast upon you whatever, if you choose to deny me now. But you... you are the voice of my Heartsong, Bilbo Baggins.” In the moment’s pause that followed that declaration, Bilbo felt his stomach flip like a griddlecake, and watched as the length of Thorin’s throat bobbed in a hard swallow. “If you would do me such a kindness, I would desire to know if this bond is returned, even if I shall not be permitted to earn your affections. I would not infringe upon your modesty further by looking upon your Mark, but please, I ask that you tell me— do you bear my name?”

When flustered, Thorin’s speech tended to grow stilted and almost painfully stiff, even as his faint dwarven accent thickened, putting a burr around each clipped word. Bilbo might have been more interested in taking note of the change, might have considered the vague impression of resentment about the rounded sounds of Westron in that stubborn dwarven mouth, if he hadn’t been so very stunned by the idea that Thorin Oakenshield had just said _please_.

“I can’t—” The words escaped before Bilbo could stop them, blundering over his tongue, and he grabbed hold of Thorin's elbow immediately, latching on to the more forgiving gap between brigandine and vambrace. The tension under his palm felt more like iron than muscle, drawn tight beneath the thick padding of his gambeson. “Wait, no, please. I mean, I can't tell you, because I _don't know_. My Mark, it's not... oh, just look, would you?”

Before he could over-think, or even think much at all, Bilbo tamped down the last dregs of fluttering nervousness and laid his hand across Thorin's forearm, palm up, tugging his cuffs back enough to bare crimson lines.

“I've never had any idea what that says.” He had known the shapes of those runes by heart before he'd learned his letters, but after nearly fifty-two years, they still divulged no more meaning to him than the pattern of freckles on his chest, or the constellations of stars. “There aren't any books on dwarven runes, at least none that I could find, and the few dwarf traders that ever came through the Shire said they couldn't read it either.''

Closing his hand in a tight fist, feeling altogether exposed, Bilbo was grateful at least that Thorin was no longer glowering at the forest as though he could set it on fire by willpower alone. No, now that baleful attention was focused on Bilbo's wrist, on the blood red runes Marked upon it, and Bilbo watched as flinty frustration melted to the same sort of silent astonishment his song had elicited. He hoped— more fervently than he was willing to examine at the moment— that the thunderstruck expression was a good sign.

“I can't tell you,” he repeated, quietly beneath the drone of bees. “Can you tell _me_?”

Thorin blinked slowly, then let out a great gusting exhale, and for the first time since this conversation had begun, he turned his gaze to meet Bilbo’s. There was relief in his eyes, sparking bright, but also a worrying amount of solemnity, granite-grey and hard.

“It is Khuzdul,” Thorin explained, and Bilbo barely refrained from hurrying him on; the fact that it was dwarven script was no great revelation. “The dwarven traders you asked were not entirely truthful, but we hoard the secrets of our language vigilantly; their reticence does them credit.”

“Does them _credit_?” Calming a sudden rush of exasperation with some effort, Bilbo tried in vain to keep his teeth from clenching at the blasted bullheaded stubbornness of dwarves. “Thorin, please, if you feel any friendship for me at all—”

“ _Muhudeldumu_.” It sounded more like a cough than a word, a guttural roll of noises bashed together, but it fell from Thorin’s lips with remarkable ease. “Is what it says. _Muhudel_ here, and _dumu_ below.”

It was a bit like being doused with a bucket of cold water, which hadn’t happened to Bilbo in years— not since he was a lad, apt to roam fields and forest until all hours, then sleep through his chores without strong encouragement to wake.

“Muhu—” Shaking his head sharply, Bilbo refused to even attempt the knotty foreign syllables. There was a smile twitching at the corner of Thorin’s mouth, and that was another frigid splash. Of course a dwarven king would be relieved to find he wasn’t bound quite so tightly to some finicky, middle-aged halfling chap. Perhaps all this Heartsong business was simply a mix-up after all—

A roughly callused touch against his fingers was unexpected, and Bilbo very nearly jerked away, but Thorin’s hand was impossibly gentle as it coaxed his fist to loosen, and the Mark was given a respectfully wide berth.

“Muhudeldumu _,”_ Thorin said again, slowly enunciating as though he wanted Bilbo to learn and remember. “Means _most blessed blood_. It is my true name, chosen at my birth and kept secret from all but my kin.”

 

* * *

 

“You— what—” Bilbo was gaping at him, brows furrowed, and Thorin felt a twist of worry in his gut. A bond was not a pledge, not a guarantee of affection... His appalling behaviour may indeed have not been forgiven and, soured against him, Bilbo would have preferred a different answer. Or perhaps it was even simpler than all that, and the halfling did not find him appealing by Hobbitish standards.

“Your _true name_?” Clever fingers lacing through his own, holding tight, were enough to allow him a shred of hope, even as Bilbo’s expression shifted from incredulous to clearly annoyed. “What in the world— you have another name? A _secret_ name? Blessed blood... Why... Your name isn’t _Thorin_?”

“Thorin is my outer-name.” At the startlingly dangerous gleam that flashed through Bilbo’s eyes, Thorin hastened to continue, purging every hint of pedantry from his tone. “The name I chose as a lad to use amongst outsiders, and to honour my grandfather. It's as much my name as Muhudeldumu, but for a different purpose. Your Mark—” Very softly, Thorin rubbed his thumb along the heel of Bilbo’s hand, permitting his eyes to shift down to the precise, elegant rows of cirth. There was his name, written dark and rich as garnet. “Is what my mother called me as a babe, and the hopes of my father for a strong, honourable son. If Thorin is my flesh, my face, the strength of my arm, then Muhudeldumu is my soul.”

It sounded too poetic in Westron, too fanciful a concept, but Thorin had no other words to offer than came close to explaining. Sitting so close beside him, near enough that Thorin could see strands of gold blended amongst loose brown curls, Bilbo seemed to chew on the notion for a moment or two, before straightening his spine and levelling Thorin with a steady look and a jut of his smooth, hairless chin.

“These bushes have been beaten around quite enough, I’d say. Thorin, Mu _hu_ da— ah, Muhmoo—”

“Muhudeldumu,” Thorin corrected, when Bilbo prompted him with a confounded sort of shrug.

“Yes, well, that may take a bit of practice.” Seeming to gather himself again, Bilbo pressed on. “Which I’d like to get— practice that is— if you would be amenable. I should like to declare formally my intent... my desire to court you, as my intended. If you would allow it.”

It should have been ridiculous, utterly laughable, but Thorin was not struck by humour. It was clear enough that Bilbo was earnest, and while the concept of being _courted_ by this halfling like some Shire lass was absurd, it was the meaning behind the offer that sent heat blooming beneath Thorin’s ribs.

“Court me?” Watching Bilbo’s face for any sign of refusal, or even a flinch of embarrassment, Thorin raised their linked hands until the Mark was bold and bare between them. “And what would such a thing entail?”

Leaning down, he made sure to breathe hot against the vibrant runes of his name, before continuing on to press a kiss against the centre of Bilbo’s palm. His audacity earned him a shudder, and the entirely welcome sensation of Bilbo’s free hand rising to cup his jaw.

“Hobbits are simple creatures,” Bilbo murmured, carding fingers slowly through coarse beard; Thorin resisted the urge to press into the sensation, though the smooth, deepening pitch of Bilbo’s voice did not ease his attempts at restraint. “Who value comfort and pleasure above most all else. Courting usually begins with favours and small gifts, sharing of meals, and kisses, of course—”

Surging forward, Thorin caught Bilbo’s mouth, open mid-word, and wasted no time licking his way inside, claiming a small taste. Before he could even begin to coax the hobbit nearer, Bilbo was clambering over to perch on his lap, returning the kiss with fervour Thorin had not expected, but appreciated heartily enough. The hand in his beard tightened, pulling gently but firmly to tilt his head, and Thorin could not help but comply, groaning loud and rough as Bilbo’s tongue slid wetly against his own.

The halfling kissed like an earthquake, shaking Thorin down to his bones. His hands gripped at soft clothing and the promise of warm, supple flesh beneath, hanging on.

“What,” Thorin gasped, allowing himself to be urged down against the plush grass, then scrambled to remember himself as Bilbo pulled back, arms braced against Thorin’s shoulders. “You— you _fierce_ little thing.”

Bilbo’s smile was radiant, his full mouth gone pink and wet, and his eyes glittering. “You’re the one who wanted to skip straight to kisses.”

“Guilty,” Thorin acknowledged with a breathless chuckle, then peeled one of his hands away from its burrow under Bilbo’s coat. Taking hold of the hobbit’s forearm, Thorin twisted it ‘round until he could see his name again, peeking out from a battered cuff. There was no need to quell the surge of lust that scorched through him at the sight of it— not with Bilbo already squirming atop him. “Does hobbit courting permit me to touch this?”

They were both still fully dressed, without even coats or belts more than slightly askew, but the intensity that stole across Bilbo’s face at the question somehow made Thorin feel more naked than he had ever been in his life. He might have dropped the arm in his grasp, if Bilbo had not answered almost without hesitation.

“Yes.” Darting down, quick as a snake, Bilbo stole a brief, hard kiss from Thorin's unresisting mouth. “But go gently, if you please.”

“As you like.” Leaving the Mark for now, Thorin slid a hand slowly up the curve of Bilbo's spine, drawing the hobbit down to lie flat against his chest again. Pressing his nose into silken curls, still soft and clean after their recent bathing, Thorin nuzzled against one broad, leaf-shaped ear. The tapered point was mildly disconcerting, but despite the ears and naked cheeks, the compact body under his hands was certainly not elven.

“Whatever you like,” he whispered, barely louder than a breath, and felt Bilbo's answering hum shiver through him. Gods, the things he would do to make this hobbit sing defied belief. “Anything. I serve at your pleasure, the song of my heart.”

The wordless whine that admission coaxed out was almost lyrical in its beauty, and it simply grew louder when Thorin licked a broad stripe over the ear before him. Bilbo's hands crept up Thorin's neck, winding through hair and braids, and he began laying trails of lingering, open-mouthed kisses along the edge of Thorin's jaw.

“For goodness sake, you soppy old dwarf,” Bilbo began to say, hoarsely muttered, but then Thorin craned his neck and found the Mark near enough to kiss. A brush of his mouth against those runes had Bilbo gasping, hips pressing down against unforgiving armour, and the warmth of the morning sun was swiftly becoming too much to bear while kitted completely, especially as Thorin began to strain within his braies and trousers.

Rolling them both onto their sides in the clover, keeping his lips and tongue tracing softly over every line of the Mark, Thorin pushed himself partially free of his own coat, then turned to press their mouths together again, slow and teasing.

“This hobbit courting,” he said between their shared breaths, reaching down to draw one of Bilbo's knees up over his hip, slotting them tighter together and squeezing his hand over the lavish swell of Bilbo's arse. “Does it allow for more than kisses? Or shall I make you come apart with just my mouth?”

“Whatever brings comfort or pleasure,” was Bilbo's answer, as he lay red-cheeked and swollen lipped, with laughter twining about his words. “Getting you out of that prodding armour, for instance, would bring me no end of delight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know it's a terribly cruel place to stop for the moment, but look! They actually _spoke_ about things! That has to count for something  <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is approximately 2500 words of unapologetic, schmoopy porn. I think it’s the least these two lovely chaps, and you fantastic folks, deserve after sticking with me so far. Thank you all for your wonderful, thoughtful reviews/comments, for your kudos and the messages on my tumblr, and simply thank you for reading. I appreciate it so much. <3
> 
> And speaking of reading, a few of you have asked about Dwalin/Ori Heartsong things (about which I have been intentionally mum, and will continue to be, bwahaha), and as luck would have it, the wonderful [rachel4revenge](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rachel4revenge/pseuds/rachel4revenge/works) has provided a gorgeous companion story inspired by Made & Remade. It's incredibly well-written, bittersweet and beautiful, and I cannot recommend it enough: [Sing Me a Lullaby](http://archiveofourown.org/works/647871)
> 
> Enough of my yammering. On with the porn!

“I have sliced onions,” Bilbo muttered, plucking open buckles and peeling back wool and leather, only to find even more wool waiting beneath, rather than naked skin and hard muscle. “With fewer layers than this. How in the world do you get dressed? How do you make water?”

Lying on his back again, cushioned from the slightly damp grass by the thick fur of his discarded coat, Thorin flicked open another small, pearly button, baring a bit more of Bilbo’s chest. The urgency of shortly before had eased to a simmer as the mulish hobbit insisted on removing Thorin’s garments himself, and Thorin found himself far more amused by the scowl being levelled at his undershirt than he was frustrated by the delay.

And Bilbo had the nerve to call _him_ stubborn.

Chuckling earned him a swivel of that dark scowl towards his face rather than at his skivvies; kneading his hands into Bilbo’s ribs (with only a thin shirt and a pair of braces between him and the promise of skin), Thorin made absolutely no attempt to stifle his grin. “I can drop my braies easily enough. If you want at my chest, you’ll have to dig for it.”

“I _am_ digging; I simply didn’t realise I would be digging so deep. Folk talk about dwarven puzzle locks being impossible, but _this_ — this would drive me mad.” In all honesty, Bilbo was doing surprisingly well considering his inexperience in removing armour and the like. His gambleson undone, Thorin sat up just enough to free his arms from the padded cloth, then took advantage of the new angle to steal a kiss from Bilbo’s frowning mouth. With Bilbo distracted momentarily, it was a simple enough thing to hook his thumbs around the hobbit’s braces and drag them off his shoulders.

“It’s merely habit to me by now,” Thorin said, peppering Bilbo’s chin and cheek with a few more kisses for good measure; the peach-like smoothness was odd, but not enough to be off-putting. “Another thing for you to practice, perhaps. And often, if I have my way.”

“If I can manage once before the next Age—” Wriggling a bit to assist Bilbo in yanking his shirt free from his trousers, Thorin took great pleasure in watching that furious glower slacken into something much more agreeable. Then he took even greater pleasure in the sensation of Bilbo’s fingers burying themselves in the dark hair that trailed up his now exposed stomach. “Oh, thank goodness, _finally_ … hmm, that’s lovely. Soft.”

And it was quite lovely indeed, as Bilbo’s hands slid firmly up, pushing cloth out of the way— Thorin arched into it, groaning deep and low at the much anticipated touch.

Bending forward, nuzzling kisses up the centre of Thorin's chest, Bilbo's smile curled wide and rascally. “My cousin had a great lazy tomcat who purred just like that when you rubbed his belly.”

“Cheeky halfling.” Rather than raise his arms to allow the shirt to be removed entirely, Thorin reached down and grabbed two handfuls of Bilbo’s arse, kneading intently, pressing blunt nails into soft flesh. Bilbo’s head dropped, and his breath stuttered against Thorin’s throat. “It would take a stonier dwarf than I not to purr under your attentions, but what sounds can I wring from you, I wonder?”

“They can’t see us through the hedgerow,” Bilbo said, his tone hitching unevenly as he began pushing insistently at Thorin’s shirt again. “But noise still travels, so _hush_.”

“I want to hear you,” Thorin carried on, as if Bilbo hadn’t spoken, and used his grip to hoist Bilbo closer before rolling them both over, pressing Bilbo against the clover. Bilbo’s thighs spread wide under his weight, and the last tiny shirt buttons gave way easily for Thorin’s fingers. “Let me hear you sing for me.”

With patience drawn thin but not snapped, Thorin dragged his hands over Bilbo’s bare trunk, marvelling in the soft, tufting hair and impossibly softer skin, like honey drizzled upon cream. Bilbo squirmed, giggling when Thorin’s touch became too light, and sighing contentedly when he firmed his strokes, petting and learning every plane and curve. Bilbo was nearly unblemished, pristine as new porcelain compared to the scars that peppered Thorin’s flesh... save, of course, for the deep crimson runes across his wrist. Unmarked, except for Thorin’s own name.

In all his long decades— from the gilded treasure rooms of Erebor, great vaulting walls glittering with gems and precious veins, to the radiance of the Arkenstone itself— Thorin had never before been so struck by beauty.

“Shirt _off_ , confound you, Thorin—” Grabbing hold of a worn, woollen hem, Bilbo yanked, and Thorin submitted to the stripping, losing sight and feel of his prize for just a moment as Bilbo dragged the shirt up over his head. “There. I worked hard for this, you know.”

“You did indeed.” The sun heated his naked back, but it did not feel nearly as warm as the body beneath him. Suddenly greedy for more of that warmth, Thorin braced his hands on either side of the riot of light brown curls spread across green, grinding their hips together with an unhurried roll. The sound of his name, _Thorin_ , cried out with a keening tail and clinging hands around his ribs was glorious, stoking his blood. He bent, claiming that mouth and all its sweet sounds, dropping to his elbows when Bilbo’s arms slung around his back held him tight.

“Bilbo,” he said, their mouths sliding together and apart, and his fingers tangling in short, unbraided hair. “My Bilbo, hmm, mine...”

 

* * *

 

Bilbo had never been near a forge in his life, content to buy whatever metalwork his home required at the market rather than bothering to visit the smithy directly, but he could not imagine it being hotter than the flush of his skin at that very moment. Hemmed in by thick muscle and rough, scarred flesh on all sides, his heels digging into the backs of Thorin's thighs and the dwarf's weight pressing down upon him like a pestle in a mortar, Bilbo was shocked by every heartbeat, half-expecting to burst into flames.

Dwarves, especially _this_ dwarf, seemed to have the patience of the very earth, while Shirefolk were much more in-tune with the seasons of growth and harvest— patient to a point, but certainly not willing to wait for the stones themselves to weather to dust. There was a time for sowing, a time for tending, and a time for savouring the fruits of one's labours.

Long hair hung around them like a curtain, dark and private with only the wet sounds of tongues and lips and the soft rasp of beard against his cheeks, but there was still enough to grab hold of at Thorin's nape. Tugging, not pulling, earned him a shudder and heavy panting against his jaw, and Bilbo pressed the advantage of Thorin's very promising distraction.

“Trousers,” he said, and tugged again. Thorin's hips jerked against him with enough force to make Bilbo's eyes cross, but not quite enough to distract him from his goal. With his free hand, Bilbo sought chest hair and the firm pebbles of nipples, pinching and rolling under his thumb. “Off, off, now, please, _off_ —”

Some noise rumbled up from the very depths of Thorin's throat, and Bilbo would have bet his finest silver spoons that the growl was proper words, Khuzdul. Bilbo's left hand, pressed flat against Thorin's chest, tingled from wrist to fingertips.

“Fine,” Thorin said, his Westron cracking around the edges. “Yes, here—”

There was some fumbling, a few knees ending up in the wrong places and graceless shuffling between the grass and their growing nest of discarded clothes, but it wasn't terribly long before Bilbo found himself bare-bottomed on the plush fur of Thorin's coat, with an equally naked dwarven king kneeling unashamedly between his feet.

Of course, Thorin had precisely nothing to be ashamed of, built as though he’d been hewn from boulders. Broad shoulders and chest, and the thickly corded arms of someone accustomed to the swing of a smith’s hammer— that vision alone was enough to send Bilbo’s pulse racing, but now his unfettered view descended lower than it ever had before. A trim waist for a dwarf, though still stocky, and a darkly furred belly drew his eye down, where Thorin’s pride stood stiff and impressively (almost alarmingly) stout.

Bilbo wasn’t entirely certain he’d be able to close his hand fully around the thing, but he was eager to try.

“Such a beauty.” Large, rough hands landed upon his feet, carding through the thatches of hair before sliding up his ankles and calves, and Thorin leaned forward to trail kisses and rumbling words against Bilbo’s bent knee. “Such a sweet thing. Tell me...”

At the first wet suck against the inside of his thigh, Bilbo buried both hands in the heavy waves of Thorin’s hair, parting his legs and biting his lip. His own cock was lying hard against his stomach, perhaps not so thick as Thorin’s but not entirely unimpressive (he hoped, at least), and it twitched with interest as kisses and the light nip of teeth moved ever closer.

“Tell me,” Thorin said again, nosing teasingly at the crease between Bilbo’s thigh and hip and tickling with his beard. Bilbo inhaled a deep, steadying breath and looked down; had he missed something? Tell him what?

Thorin’s eyes, dark as nightfall, peered up at him hotly, and Bilbo could not smother the whinging little groan that snuck out of his throat under that scrutiny. Hands gripped behind Bilbo’s knees and pushed, spreading him wider and wedging broad shoulders between his thighs.

“Tell me I might taste you—” Thorin’s breath was excruciatingly warm and welcome against Bilbo’s cock, gusting out like a summer zephyr from root to slick, shining tip. “Tell me I might have you.”

“Yes,” Bilbo hissed, fingers tightening around hanks of hair, and then Thorin was upon him, scorching mouth closing over the head of his cock and drawing him inside. The world narrowed to heat and suction, _finally_ , and the messy slide of hungry lips and lapping tongue. The sticky, jolly fumblings of his younger years had not prepared Bilbo for this, for this fervour— Thorin worked him with little finesse and no fancy twists of his tongue, but Bilbo had never felt as though his very marrow was being sucked from him. He was pinned, barely able to wiggle his hips let alone thrust as his blood urged him to do, but he learned quickly that a tug of hair could guide Thorin’s attentions just where he needed them, making Bilbo’s toes curl in the peaceful morning air.

“Ah!” Pressing his skull back against the fur, Bilbo barely managed to stifle his shout when Thorin’s tongue slid firmly under his crown, playing over that sensitive spot that made whizzpoppers go off bright and colourful behind Bilbo’s eyes. Thorin’s satisfied hum was a spark to tinder, especially paired with that wicked tongue, and pleasure poured down Bilbo’s spine like hot water, pooling low. “Ah—ah— _ah_!”

He was teetering on the very edge of the precipice when Thorin released him, thin lips gone obscenely red and beard gleaming wet, and Bilbo wailed at the loss, uncaring for propriety if he could simply get that mouth back. Ignoring a fiercer yank to his hair, Thorin heaved himself up, folding Bilbo near in half before sliding tautly stretched legs off his shoulder and settling their hips together, hardness gliding slick with spit. Bilbo gasped, wrecked and desperate, then gasped again when one broad hand wedged between them, wrapping them both in a shared, snug grip.

“Together,” Thorin murmured, hoarse and deep as thunder, and Bilbo would have kissed him silly if he’d been able to catch his breath. “Aye... aye, just like this.”

Free to thrust much more than a moment ago, Bilbo’s hips snapped up, relishing the feel of Thorin’s cock pressed against his own. He blinked, thrashing his head to clear the worst sting of sweat from his eyes, just as Thorin’s fingers twisted just so; the world blurred to colour and Thorin’s indecipherable muttering against his neck. He spilled with a cry, sharp and shrill, and Thorin’s hand sped in its already quick pulls, striping their slick cocks— just when Bilbo thought he could take no more, shuddering and too tender, he felt Thorin jolt and tense, and the warm mess grew between them.

Wheezing under Thorin’s slumping girth, feeling altogether boneless himself, Bilbo sucked in a few bracing lungfuls of air and wriggled, letting Thorin sprawl more beside him than atop him.

They laid in the sunlight, curled sticky against each other, and Bilbo nuzzled lazy kisses against Thorin’s brow, waiting for the quivering in his muscles to fade to sated comfort. One hand, he kept tangled in the sweat-damp nest of Thorin’s hair, while the other trailed slowly down over a scarred shoulder, following the arm Thorin had slung over Bilbo’s middle.

“There it is,” Thorin said huskily, his head pillowed on Bilbo’s chest, and took hold of Bilbo’s wandering hand. Drawing it near, Thorin pressed a fond, whiskery kiss against the sensitive skin of his Mark, and Bilbo huffed with amusement at the tickling sensation.

“You’re appallingly satisfied with yourself,” he said around a laugh, fingertips stroking Thorin’s beard and the strong jaw beneath.

“More so with you.” After bussing the Mark again, Thorin shifted back, raising his head to find Bilbo’s mouth and claim that for a moment as well. He tasted faintly of salt and musk, and Bilbo groaned quietly at the flavour. “Mm, much more with you, and I’ve barely had a taste. Might I hope you will allow me more?”

The question was playful, but also achingly sincere, and Bilbo reached up to stroke stray hairs from Thorin’s face, smiling. “I think that’s a safe hope, especially if you’ll allow me the same.”

“I would allow you everything,” Thorin said, butting their brows together and resting there. Bilbo felt his heart, having so recently calmed, flutter madly behind his ribs; soppy old dwarf, indeed.

Swallowing over a conspicuous lump in his throat, Bilbo didn’t quite trust his voice to speak; instead, he decided to risk one better. Burrowing nearer, until he was wrapped cosily in Thorin’s arms, Bilbo plucked a simple walking song from his memory. When he began to hum the melody, the brief tune restful but glad, Thorin’s smile was the very picture of peaceful contentment.

It was the perfect sort of morning for a bit of a kip, and Bilbo felt himself start to drift, sinking into the comfort of Thorin’s body, the smell of wildflowers, and the drone of bees. He was not so far gone, however, that he missed the near-silent whisper into the curls of his hair.

“Tell me I might have you.” The slide of Thorin’s callused hand over his bare back was gentle, and Bilbo shivered, struck with gooseflesh. “Tell me I might keep you.”

“You had better,” Bilbo murmured, keeping his eyes closed and sighing as Thorin’s arm tightened around him. His stomach would wake him soon enough, grumbling for food, but a nap sounded blissful for the moment. “After keeping me _waiting_ all this time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, and I nearly forgot to mention that I made a cover for this story. You can view it [here.](http://24.media.tumblr.com/d16ce6802f79df55e29752dc7435c5ac/tumblr_mgtydr3GEj1r08daho2_1280.jpg)


	11. Chapter 11

“Come on, brother. It’s been ages.” Whapping Fili’s arm, Kili pushed his empty plate away and unfolded himself from the bench. “Our hobbit’s obviously too much for Thorin to handle properly; let’s give him a hand.”

Seated a bit farther down the table, Balin choked on a mouthful of watered mead, sputtering into a napkin, and seated just to Kili’s right, Ori turned brilliantly tomato red from the roots of his hair to the wisps of his beard. The other members of the company simply turned to stare at the young brothers, their expressions frozen in varying degrees of shock and confusion.

Even Fili was gawping slack-jawed, as though Kili had just sprouted up two feet taller and declared himself an elf maiden. Kili paused, fighting the instinct to squirm like a badly behaved lad under the unanticipated scrutiny.

“What in Durin’s name are you on about,” Fili said, speaking slow and wary. “Have you lost your mind entirely?”

To be honest, Kili was fairly convinced someone must have gone mad, but whether it was him or everyone else, he wasn’t sure. Crossing his arms, he very pointedly did not shrink away from the gawking audience, puffing up instead. “No, why? What? They’ll miss breakfast at this rate.”

“Kee—” When Fili reached up and snagged his sleeve, Kili allowed himself to be dragged back down onto the bench with only token struggling. Fili’s grip shifted almost immediately to clamp over his nape, and his voice was a furious whisper breathed hot over Kili’s ear. “If you step one foot outside this hall, Thorin will _skin you alive_. There’s teasing, and then there’s _this_ — you can’t interrupt, you clot.”

Kili leaned away ever so slightly, peering askance at his brother; his response was also a whisper, though it wasn’t clear how much use it was to lower his voice in an otherwise silent hall, surrounded by their companions. “Interrupt _what_? Uncle’s just gone searching for Bilbo.”

The expression that stole across Fili’s face was terribly pained, and perhaps just a shade disbelieving. “Searching for... Oh, Mahal have mercy, who _ever_ told you that you were the clever one?”

“Everyone says so,” Kili said instantly, as natural as breathing. Across the table from them, Bofur’s eyes were bright behind the camouflage of his hand, and his shoulders were shaking, while Nori was staring resolutely into a bowl of porridge and very obviously trying to stifle a grin.

“Thorin’s out there,” Fili hissed, reeling his brother back in by his collar. “Tracking down the voice of his Heartsong. Do you _really_ want to interrupt?”

“Voice of his— Wait, what—” Kili coughed as Fili shook him sharply. “Hey, _leave off_ — Oh! Oh, oh... _Bilbo_? Thorin's voice is... but he...” Suddenly, Kili's face split into the most brilliant grin, and he stopped squirming under his brother's grip. “ _Uncle_ Bilbo!”

Then, just as suddenly, the grin dropped away, and Fili found himself being punched quite hard in the shoulder. “ _Fili_! You never said anything, you twit!”

“I thought you knew!” Rolling his arm, holding back a wince with all the stoicism of an older sibling, Fili took some comfort in the fact that most of the others were staring soley at his daft brother with disbelief and amusement. “Everyone knew— _Oin_ knew, and he’s _deaf_!”

Farther down the table, Oin didn’t look up from his bowl of plump berries and cream, oblivious without his ear trumpet. Or, equally likely, he didn't especially care about the commotion.

“Everyone knew?” Kili’s eyes were wide and dark, his voice had gone worryingly small. There were far worse feelings than an aching shoulder, and Fili sighed, reaching to cup his hand against his brother’s cheek.

“Everyone knows,” he corrected, then leaned up to knock their brows together firmly. “Including you. So, Uncle Bilbo, eh?”

The wide doors of the hall had been flung open by Beorn’s hounds, allowing the fresh, fragrant air of morning to sweep away the closeness of night and the musk of sleeping dwarf. It was at that precise moment, however, that the breeze also carried with it the distinct cry of a name, shouted by a familiar, if rather strained-sounding voice.

Every single dwarf, excluding Oin, froze in their seats.

“Uncle Bilbo’s got a set of lungs on him,” Kili whispered after a long, tense moment, and Fili had to bite his fist to keep from laughing aloud. Another keening shout, this one wordless but no less enthusiastic than the first, had them both dissolving into snickers and wheezing, falling over each other.

Nearby, Balin was tutting, even as a smile twitched around his mouth. Dwalin got to his feet with a rumbling grunt, hauling Dori away from his attempts to cover young Ori’s ears, and the doors closed with a resounding thud under Dwalin and Dori’s attentions.

* * *

 

Thorin woke slowly from his light doze, cataloguing his current state without opening his eyes against the gentle glare of sunlight— he was warm, bearably itchy, and draped in nude hobbit.

Nude, gently snoring hobbit, lying comfortably against Thorin’s chest, tucked close in the crook of his shoulder; breathing deep, Thorin slid his palm over the slope of Bilbo’s back, committing the softness of sun-warmed skin to memory. He could not revel in such decadence every day, not with their quest still looming dark and dangerous upon the eastern horizon, but for the moment, he could allow himself a brief respite. Just a pause to catch his breath, after nearly two centuries of waiting, of listening in the dark as his dreams faded to cold reality: a kingdom stolen, a people scattered, an empty bed, and a hardened heart.

No, Thorin could not rest while his kingdom still stood in ruin, beset by wicked occupation, but he could spare one morning for this. Every quiet snuffle against the crook of his neck made Thorin ache, deep in the very centre of his chest. The tickle of mussed curls against his throat, the scent of sweat and fresh grass, and the comfort of Bilbo’s weight pressed down upon him was nearly too much to bear, too sweet after so long steeped in sour disappointments and bitter anger.

He was a crownless king, whose people lived as refugees and vagabonds. He had not yet earned joy such as this— not while Durin’s Folk were kept from dwelling within the walls of Erebor.

But earned or no, he would not give it up.

Moving slowly, Thorin trailed his hand along Bilbo’s arm, catching the hobbit lightly around the wrist and lifting it until he could see dark runes on fair skin, red letters over faint bluish veins. Bilbo’s fingers twitched, curling loosely against his palm, and Thorin slid his grip upward, tangling their fingers together as he studied the Mark.

The lines were slightly raised, not uneven enough to feel with his callus-roughened hands, but Thorin could see the difference. Tattoos would sometimes heal in a similar fashion; the angular designs inked over Thorin’s skin were not entirely smooth, and not simply from the other scars layered above and below. This Mark... it felt different, somehow. It had not been drawn by mortal hands, as his tattoos had been; of that, Thorin had not a sliver of doubt.

Easing Bilbo’s arm closer, Thorin brushed his mouth against the Mark, seeking the subtle textures his hands could not feel. Almost immediately, his lips began to tingle faintly, humming with an odd but pleasant sensation, and Bilbo grumbled sleepily, nuzzling his nose under Thorin’s jaw.

_Muhudeldumu_.

There was a dark, greedy part of him, kept tightly leashed by stubbornness and shame— a coal-black core that reminded him too much of the sickness that had taken hold of his grandfather’s mind. It was his curse, as well, beyond the calamity of Smaug; it was one of Thorin's greatest fears that he could also lose himself to such madness. The sort of mad avarice that could send a king scrabbling after a gem while a dragon decimated his people, his _family_.

And it was the same endless, voracious pit behind Thorin's ribs that throbbed fiercely at the sight of his name, _his name_ , etched across Bilbo’s flesh. Only fools were fearless; the urge to lock this vibrant hobbit away, to keep him safe, and caught, and _owned_ forever... that was a frightening craving.

Fear was useful. Thror had not feared the dragon when piles of gold had writhed before him like the swells of a storm-ravaged sea, and the air had hung heavy with the putrid stink of charred flesh and sulphur. When Thorin had dragged him from the treasure room, it had not been fear of Smaug that glittered in his wide, wild eyes.

The thought of Bilbo locked forever in a cage (kept safe, kept _his_ ), where the brightness of his impossible spirit would dim to washed-out grey, terrified Thorin down to his bones.

Yes, fear was useful.

Shaking off the shroud of his morbid thoughts, Thorin returned to the here and now, pressing another whisper-soft kiss against the Mark that had so snared his attention.

Bilbo’s breath was hot against his throat, stuttering on a low groaning sort of noise before puffing out a garbled word that may have been _tickles_. Feeling his face split into a smile, Thorin kissed the Mark again, more firmly this time, and rumbled his own sound of contentment when sly hobbit fingers carded lazily into his beard, scratching.

“M’wake,” Bilbo mumbled, every limb clinging tighter. He hummed softly, tunelessly, and kissed the skipping pulse in Thorin's throat. “Mm, oh, my... my bare bum’s out in the garden.”

Though it sounded much more like an observation than a complaint, Thorin still lowered the arm looped around Bilbo's back, spreading his fingers as wide as possible over the bare bottom in question. To be entirely honest, it did very little for Bilbo's modesty— Thorin had large hands, broad palms, but his little burglar was appealingly ample in other places.

“Better?” Thorin asked, hoarse from sleep and their earlier pleasures, and gave in to the desire to press his nose against a mussed crown of curls, now that Bilbo was mostly awake.

“Yes, of course.” Chuckling, Bilbo arched back, pressing his arse into Thorin's touch without a hint of subtlety. Hobbitish hedonism, Thorin was quickly discovering, could be quite the marvellous thing under proper circumstances. “Getting better all the time.”

The smile straining at Thorin's cheeks was no longer hidden when he rolled them over, laying Bilbo's back gently on the grass, but that hardly mattered. Bilbo blinked up at him, looking rather pleased himself as he stretched, looping his arms around Thorin's neck and grinning fondly.

“Later,” Thorin said, bending to rest his brow against Bilbo's. “This evening, when the others are gorged on supper and settled, I shall steal you away, my dear burglar.” Lowering his voice even as he lowered himself to murmur against the curve of Bilbo's jaw, Thorin allowed his hands to explore bare skin for just a few stolen moments more. “Steal you away, slick you open, and have you sing for me again.”

Before Bilbo could do more than wriggle under him, hands clutching at his nape, Thorin licked a stripe over the heat of one flushed cheek and sat up, keeping a hand braced securely against Bilbo's chest to stop the hobbit from following him.

Grumbling, tossing his head with half-hearted frustration, Bilbo reached up and gave Thorin's elbow a sharp pinch. “Oh, I will hold you to that, you bothersome dwarf. And speaking of burgling, I'll be nicking your shirt, since you made such a mess of mine.”

Thorin's laugh surprised him, possibly more than it surprised Bilbo— it was a deep sound, rumbling up from depths Thorin had thought contained only darkness, but this laugh was brighter and more joyful than he had ever expected. Startled, Thorin swallowed it back, but managed to hold his ground when Bilbo's hand stretched up to gently pinch his chin, stroking a thumb against the grain of his beard.

“Laugh just like that, Thorin.” Bilbo's face was still flushed, ruddy pink on the apples of his cheeks and the pointed tips of his ears; it was a charmingly handsome colour, and more so since Thorin could claim a hand in putting it there. “Smile, even for a moment, and I'll sing for you whenever you like. That's a promise.”

“A promise,” Thorin repeated, the words dragging thick and sweet as honey over his tongue, and allowed Bilbo to draw him back down for a kiss. It felt rather like a promise as well, and even sweeter still, but crisp as fresh summer fruit.

It felt like a beginning; like brightness, unextinguished.

It was a candle's flame, small but stalwart, and Thorin quietly dared to hope it might ward off the dark.

He had learned better than to underestimate this impossible hobbit, after all.

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah, so sorry for the delay in getting this finished, but here you are! While I certainly feel like there may be more to add to this 'verse, this felt like a comfortable place to wrap this story up for now.
> 
> Is there anything in particular you'd like to see explored, if/when I decide to expand this with a side-story or two?
> 
> The response to this AU has been entirely unexpected, and absolutely wonderful; thank you so much for reading!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Sing Me a Lullaby](https://archiveofourown.org/works/647871) by [erebones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones)




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